The Empire's Destiny
by Asso
Summary: Mirror Universe. Which will it be, the Human Empire's fate? Who will forge it? Warning: harsh scenes; hard language; and someway the raw subject of the first chapters and its description could be disagreeable for someone.
1. Chapter 1 Let the show begin

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

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Rating: M

**Genres:** adventure, dark, and romance: the romance which can there be in the MU. An MU romance.

**Keywords:** Mirror Universe. And its Destiny.

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_**A/N**_

**First.**

I must say that, in general, I don't like too much AU stories (Woe to those who dare think that my stories are AU! LOL) and even less MU stories, with some rare exceptions. Obviously I am not saying that they aren't good stories, merely I perceive the AU stories as stories which treat other personages, who have not too much to do with those that I love (I'm talking about the stories which are TOTALLY AU, which takes our beloved characters and slide them into scenarios which are only a pale ghost of what we saw on screen. But it is evident, in reality, that a dollop of AU there must be - inevitably - in every story).

In particular, as for the Mirror Universe, it is for me a ragbag of stupidity and of nonsense. And just here is the point: Is there a way to make this universe a little more "intelligent"? Less absurd?

Well! See what I attempted to do! My presumption has no limits!

So, here are the first pages of the true story of the MU. Here, you will be able to know its destiny, and those who this destiny have forged.

And this time (and once more), justTripn wanted to help me.

**Second and very important.**

For those who are willing to read these pages, I warn them that they are hard and harsh; the language is anything but sweet; and the scene which is starting in these first lines could be disagreeable for someone.

Nevertheless remember that I am love with T'Pol, both in the real and in the mirror Universe.

Never I could sink her in the mud.

And then... there is Trip.

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The Empire's Destiny

**By Asso**

**_How things began._**

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There was no way of escape.

She had to die.

And without any dignity, among the mocking guffaws of everyone.

The final outcome of her dream of freedom was this cage, where she had been locked in, nude, at the mercy of a pack of brutes mind-deprived, who would abuse her in every way, would harrow her, mangle her, tear her to pieces, before the eyes of her taskmasters, of her revengeful tormentors.

And she would die with shame and atrocious pain, yelling of fear and ache, under the derisive look and the malignant sneer of the despicable and picayune woman, whom a malevolent Destiny had allowed to proclaim herself Empress.

_**No!**_

_No._

She wouldn't give that contemptible whore this satisfaction.

She wouldn't cede to her abasement and her fright, wouldn't tremble in terror, wouldn't whimper in anguish, wouldn't writhe of pain, while the dark would gulp her, cruelly and savagely, under the greedy and ferocious lusts of those half-human beasts, by their fangs and their claws.

She would be capable of displaying to those barbaric Humans that a Vulcan woman knows how to die.

She straightened, removing her back from the bars of the cage she had leaned on in dismay after grinning jailors had hurled her inside, and, standing up, she saw the fate she could expect: a horde of slavering beasts in the shape of gigantic Humanoids, howling at the sight of her, whom her gaolers were ready to free from their chains at the Empress' order.

Regret and sadness crossed her soul. Nothing remained to her, not even her self-respect.

Not even... the only person, the only man, who had given her a little warmth in this evil universe. In the only, harsh way he could know. But he had done it. And now... by her deeds and her failure, she had lost even him.

And to reach her aims, which had slipped away between her fingers, she had betrayed him and used him. And had permitted that he was tortured and punished, unjustly, for faults that were hers.

She... she wasn't better than those Humans. Than him.

She deserved this horrible punishment.

_Her deeds and her failure ..._

Because of them the Empire's vengeful iron fist would beat down awfully and without any pity on the subdued races that Humans had reduced to slavery. The new technologies Humans had acquired would allow them to do that, and the result of what she had done would be an Empire even wickeder and harder, led by a woman evil and without a soul, whose revengeful wrath would rampage over a Vulcan people guilty only of having given birth to her.

The curses of her own race would follow her forever, and she would be lonely and despised even in her death.

All that would be the upshot of her deeds and of her failure.

_She deserved this horrible punishment._

And the only thing she could do now was to try to die with a bit of dignity.

She lifted her chin, looking defiantly at her former colleague, at the Empress.

Her voice arose firmly from the cage, among the boarish grunts and the growls of the Human beasts.

"You won't see me cry out of fear and pain, won't derive enjoyment and pleasure from my shame. I will fight to death, and neither your bestial headsmen will have my body nor you will have my soul."

A heavy silence descended on the salon. There were only the beastly and feral verses of the wild brutes, in the shape of Humanoid beings.

The Vulcan stepped ahead, turning her back to the screaming beastly Humanoids, toward the side of the cage, in front of which was gathered the crowd of her Human persecutors, with the icily silent Empress in the front row.

The Vulcan rose up in all her magnificent nudity.

She grasped with both hands two cage's bars and brought her face to them.

She stared proudly at the Empress from behind the bars and then... she spit out her gob and her scorn to the feet of the livid sovereign.

The Empress said nothing. She simply gazed silently at the naked woman in the cage.

For some instants, nothing moved.

Only the ferine howls of the monsters and the bated silence of the Human crowd.

Then, the Empress snapped her fingers.

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TBC

_So, be sincere. Did I manage to reawaken a whit of interest?_

_Should I go on?_


	2. Chapter 2  The Cage of Horror

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

**Chapter two**

_The cage of horror_

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_**A/N**_

_This is the second chapter of my MU story. And it is dark. And harsh. And hard. _

_It is MU._

_And here, there is MU T'Pol. And her enemies. _

_There's no pity, here, nor any mercy._

_Nor any limit._

_You are warned._

_This time I went to the source. The writer who is able to handle action and violence more than anyone else, but who is capable of writing love's things more than anyone else, wanted to help me._

_I am talking of __**Bluenblack.**_

_And, beside him, I have to thank also __**Oldguy73**__, who offered to me many suggestions. And smoothed my roughness. Just so._

_But there is another person who wanted to help me, attentively, respectfully, with careful precision. A person, a great writer, who thought that my story – and this chapter, in particular – is worth. __**Opalsmith**__, thank you._

_But, before you start reading this chapter, please remember two things: T'Pol's situ__ation in the previous chapter, and what I wrote in it._

_For those who are willing to read these pages, I warn them that they are hard and harsh; the language is anything but sweet; and the scene which is starting in these first lines could be disagreeable for someone._

_Nevertheless remember that I am love with T'Pol, both in the real and in the mirror Universe. Never I could sink her in the mud. And then... there is Trip._

Now the scene will go in full light.

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**The Empire's Destiny - Chapter two**

_The cage of horror_

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The chains fell down. To the floor of the cage. With a metallic, sinister clang.

The Vulcan started and turned around, her back against the cage's bars, her eyes on those savage beings.

She knew what they were. Barbaric Humanoids that shouldn't exist. Beasts, and still Humans. The manipulation of Human, Gorilla, and Selath DNA, had brought to life those aberrant hybrids, endowed with the cold savagery of the Selaths, with the massy and wild potency of the Gorillas, with the fierce intelligence of Humans. And without the smallest trace of any Human inhibition. The best result of Doctor Soong's crazy science. Wild assassins, built to terrorize, to rape. To kill.

They were the Empire's horrible and merciless face for those who dared rebel.

They stayed silent and immovable for an instant, their grotesquely human muzzles twitching savagely, incredulous that they were unchained, free to fling themselves on the female offered to them.

Then, their exultant hellish howls tortured the air and, under the greedy gaze of the onlookers, they started their assault. They would finally have that young flesh, throbbing and hot. They would fulfil their subhuman longings and their feral hunger.

The Human crowd palpitated, in expectancy, around the large cage, which was in a stately and immense salon; the government salon of the Terran Prefect's residence on Vulcan; the captive's motherland. The salon was transformed into an open arena, so that, from behind a protected fence, her kind was able to watch the spectacle; the public show of her punishment.

Now the feast would begin and it would be savoury. The promise that the Vulcan female would fight increased its flavour.

Next to the Empress, Reed moistened his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. It would be delightful to see what the Vulcan would do, that female whom he had wanted and hadn't had, who had been with that damned Chief Engineer, dead at last, and may his soul get scorched eternally. Near to him, Hess wasn't doing anything to hide her satisfied enjoyment. She could already taste the sight of that snooty Vulcan female, who had managed to gain the attentions of the Chief Engineer with her exotic air of superiority, as she was forced to satisfy those primeval Humanoids in front of the baying crowd. Now that whore would know where her "superiority" had got her. Beside her, Mayweather showed the most deadpan face, trying to not betray the frosty contentment he felt. He would be able to view the enjoyable spectacle of the brutal end of that alien female, while at the same time basking in the knowledge that the female whose intelligence would have been a hard obstacle for his ambitious designs (especially if the Chief Engineer, peace to his soul had been at her side) was to be eliminated. Certainly he had to admit that she was someone he would willingly have demanded from the Empress for a more agreeable punishment (for himself), but he had not dared to formulate the request. Pity; anyway the outcome would be the same, even if definitely less fun. But, someway, the fun wouldn't be missing.

And in the front row, there she was; the Empress.

She was leaning forward with a gleam in her eyes.

She was unconsciously licking her lips.

The Empress would be able to savour slowly and fully all that would happen to the Vulcan harlot. She would drink in her screeches of pain and shame, while that Vulcan hussy writhed inanely under the ruthless and savage rape. She would delight in the sight of that infamous traitress, of that sneaky schemer, being torn to pieces by those famished primitive Humanoids. She would bask in the vision of that haughty bitch, down on her knees, imploring for pity and mercy. And she would laugh at her entreaties, and would watch her tormented death, enjoying her revenge over that Vulcan cow who had defeated her in their hand-to-hand fight. And at the same time she would be able to display her imperial power to all the Empire's citizens who were watching the spectacle, even those living in the middle of nowhere, what it meant to defy the will of the Empress.

She focused on the spectacle as the howling Humanoids were diving toward the Vulcan female. They were so turned on, so horny that they obstructed each other; a muddle of monstrous and obtuse troglodytes, slavering with primeval longing, fighting one against the other to reach their prey.

Then the Empress turned her attention to the prey, to the naked woman with her back flattened against the cage's bars as she looked at the one among the primordial Humanoids that was about to clutch her.

The Empress smiled wickedly. It was time.

Suddenly the Vulcan burst forth. Swiftly, like an eel, she slipped from the dreadful grasp of the creature on the brink of catching her and rolled behind the enormous Humanoid. Her hands seized his fur and she climbed up, like a squirrel, quickly moving along the monster's back, past his shoulders, until she reached his neck. And as he attempted to understand where his prey had gone, the prey was already astride his neck, and hooking her legs around it, her hands snapped forward towards his eyes, to both sides of his protuberant muzzle, where she pushed her fingers into his orbits.

The fingers penetrated them.

Deep down, like curving talons, forcefully, without mercy.

A spine-chilling yell burst from the monster's throat. He straightened to his full height, stretching his arms aloft and raking the air with his clawed hands.

He began to shake savagely and the Vulcan was no longer able to remain attached to the Subhuman juggernaut. She was thrown down landing roughly on the floor of the cage in among the feet of the other monsters, her hands daubed with the blood and eyeball mush from the wild Humanoid.

She saw immediately that there was a hair's breath of distance between her survival and death. Disordered she hastily gathered herself and attempted to get away; not even trying to get up as she scampered away on all fours.

She moved away precipitately, without daring to think of what was happening at her shoulders, her heart pounding wildly as she thought that a claw might grasp her at any moment, her skin made crawl by the cacophony of wild roars and bawling snarls she heard close behind her.

She knew she had no hope, but wouldn't give into her fear. No, she wouldn't. She would fight tooth and nail. She would push those wild Humanoids to such a fury that they would want only her death, forgetting to use her body. She wouldn't be humiliated in this way by those half-Humans, for the vengeful fun of that Human whore. Her body would feed the monsters, but wouldn't be used for their pleasure. Her soul wouldn't feed the pleasure of her Human masters.

And, somehow, an unforeseen luck helped her, if it was possible that there was any luck to be found in her situation.

She reached – she didn't know how – the cage's perimeter without any talon reaching her, and then she turned around, squatting down on the ground, her hands stretched out in front of her on the floor, her torso leaning forward, like a tiger ready to dart from the bars behind her, as she intently watched what was happening.

And she understood why she had been able to avoid any aggression.

A battle had begun between the creatures. The one that she had wounded so cruelly was attacking - blindly and furiously - whichever of his companions he perceived to be next to him; the eyes-deprived troglodyte was attempting to catch and to hit whatever - didn't matter which thing - in a mad furore of revenge and ache.

The others had surrounded him, temporarily heedless of their prey, and they were tackling the fury of their companion in the only way they knew. They were slaying him, atrociously, with bites and talons.

The Vulcan understood that this was a chance for her. She had to risk it.

Slowly and guardedly, she began to head for the knot of those wild beings in combat, stepping forward practically crouched and holding her breath.

She felt that the bystanders were watching her every move intently.

For a moment she feared that they were doing something to make the monsters aware of her intentions but she chased away this thought. She knew that Humans, although they could be treacherous, tended to respect the rules of the fight. And, besides, even if they did do something, there wasn't anything that she could do to stop them. It was illogical that she should fear something she wasn't in a condition to prevent.

Nothing happened.

She came up behind the group of Humanoids and saw the one she had blinded lying on the ground, dead, in a blood sea.

The others were raging against him, still forgetful of her, excited to the extreme by their blood fury.

All of a sudden the Vulcan leapt up, once more climbing up on the back of one monster, hoping to be able to do to him what she had done to the first, well aware that the brutes' muscular mass was too potent to allow her to make a successful neck pinch.

But this time, she failed.

The big juggernaut, despite his doltishness, was more sharp-witted than his unlucky brother, and reacted rapidly and ferociously. His clawed hand snapped to his neck, attempting to catch and to grip whatever was riding on his back, and powerfully grasped something.

The thug brought forth his arm and brandished his hand aloft, looking at what he was holding.

And he saw.

From his hand was hanging the female. With a grimace of pain painted on her face, she was writhing, dangling by her blonde crop of hair, and, attempting to ease the sharp ache she was feeling, she was trying to catch hold of the outstretched arm of her predator so as to draw herself up a little; to decrease the hurtful weight of her body on her scalp.

A huge howl of triumph erupted from the monster's throat and he began to savagely and brutally shake his living trophy.

A thrilled buzz ruffled the crowd. The Empress leaned forward, the corners of her lips slightly bending up in a smile of sadistic pleasure. Her look pierced the air and the painfully half-shut eyes of the Vulcan who was on the verge of succumbing to the brute force of her captor, met those of the Empress.

The Vulcan saw the savage twinkle which illuminated them.

She absorbed that sparkle as if it were a Nova; a reinvigorating flame.

_No. Once again… NO._

She would fight yet. She would fight. Tooth and nail_. __**Nail and tooth.**_

**Nail…**

Ignoring the pain, the Vulcan curled up, gathering her legs beneath her, and stuck all of her fingernails into the monster's flesh, flaying the arm he was holding her with and careless of the ache that the hardness of the thug's skin caused her.

…**and tooth.**

Then she forced her fingernails deeper and, playing on the surprise and the pain she was giving him, managed to free her hair from the monster's grasp. She twisted her legs around the enormous arm and jabbed her teeth deep into the Humanoid's muscles, tearing off a bite of bloody raw flesh.

The creature yelled out in wrath and pain, slamming to the ground the wretched and hapless female who still had tatters of fetid flesh attached to her lips.

She landed painfully on her back, closing her eyes on impact. She quickly reopened them, and saw the wild and wrathful subhuman towering over her. And in his eyes there was no feral lust, only murderous fury.

At that sight, the Vulcan threw what was possibly her last challenge.

She lifted her torso up to rest on her elbows. Her eyes flared savagely and she ground her teeth, growling scornfully at the monstrous Humanoid.

It was her decoy. To drive him to kill her.

She shut her eyes again and waited for the mortal blow.

She felt she had achieved her aim as she expected the death she desired to come shortly. She would be spared the shame of being raped by those primitive and wild beings for the perverse pleasure of those who had enslaved her and would foil the heinous revenge of the Empress.

Finally she would find peace, a release from her miserable life, from the Calvary of cruelties and abasements that life had become, from a life robbed of any future. She would escape from all of the pain and the grief that was burning her body and her soul.

From her weariness to live. From her fatigue.

From her remorse.

From her regret.

But death didn't arrive.

A choked sound, burbling and frightening, was reverberating through the air. It was the only sound she could hear. The only sound in a deathly silence.

She opened her eyes to look into the vivid lights that illumined the environment so as ensure those watching did not miss any of the spectacle and then she located the source of the noise. And recognized what it was.

It was the sound of death. Of the Humanoid that should have brought death to her.

He had fallen to his knees and the burbling noise she heard was coming from his throat. Around his neck the steel maw of the largest of the primeval thugs was clenched. The attacker was clinging to the succumbing Humanoid from behind with his powerful arms locked around his prey; claws harrowing flesh, dragging away blood and life.

Behind the battling pair were two of the Hybrids, as well as the other two who stood in front of the Vulcan. They watched intently, immovable and silent, as the dreadful spectacle unfolded in which their companion was facing his end by the jaws of one of their own kind.

The leader of the pack. The attacker was that.

The Vulcan understood straight away.

_The leader of the pack._ And he was stating in a feral and atrocious way, to his dying companion, to the other troglodytes... _and to her_... his right of possession.

Over her.

The Vulcan took a deep and doleful breath. Death wouldn't have her yet, wouldn't give her the freedom.

_**That**_ odious monster would have her.

All of her efforts, all of her fighting, would be useless. In vain.

The fatigue, the pain, the weakness overwhelmed her.

All of the tribulations and tortures; the distasteful food, limited supplies of noisome water, sleep deprivation, the loneliness. Imprisoned on her home world, naked in a cold, dark and mouldy dungeon, while restless thoughts about an irretrievable past and a dark future without hope whirled through her brain. It had been enough to frazzle her spirit and her will, never mind her body.

And now, this hopeless fight.

Despondency and discouragement, for the first time, filled her heart. She wanted to get up, to escape, but she wasn't capable and she knew she no longer had the force to fight. All that she could do was grovel on her back, laboriously shuffling backwards on her elbows, aware that, this time, she wouldn't be able to elude her fate. That barbarous being would get his savage pleasure from her overspent body, as would the hated Empress from her aggrieved soul.

She stopped her needless efforts and pulled together what remained of her will and her strength. With one last endeavour, she sat on the floor, gathering her legs beneath her, and then she leaned over to rest her torso on her right arm. But no one would be able to see any resignation in her posture, not at all; what was raying from her was an aura of dauntless acceptance. Of dignity. Pride

She bent her left arm letting her hand fall to rest on her hip and slightly tilted her head, looking with studied aloofness at the brutal scene before her. Disdainfully, as if none of this pertained to her.

That was all she could do to show that there was no chain capable of binding her soul. Her ultimate attempt to display to her executioners, to the Empress, that her Katra would remain inviolate and free. Always and forever.

The dying Humanoid was no longer emitting any sound. Only a feeble and wheezing breath was coming from his mouth and his eyes were losing their light.

The other, the leader, loosened his grasp, letting his beaten victim slip to the floor, like a gigantic puppet deprived of its threads.

He lay on the floor, on his back, devoid of any beefiness, under the watchful gaze of his slaughterer. He took one last breath, blinked one last time, and then his chest became still, so as his eyes, wide open in a death stare.

The winner straightened in all his puissance and raised his clenched fists at the cage's ceiling and hooted all around his wild and resonant scream of triumph.

He yelled in the air his conquered and unassailable right of property, of owning her.

And over her, over the naked and defenceless woman, waiting helplessly for her fate, by now depleted of any force, by now only faintly sustained by the stubbornly strenuous will of her soul, the monster's savage look descended, rampantly and feverishly covetous.

Once more a thrill of excitement ran through the observing crowd.

The fight, the blood, the wild spectacle... the odour of the death...

The Empress inhaled the flavour of her power.

She was sitting on her throne, just before the big cage, and was basking in the power she was exerting over that Vulcan sow. She held the power of life and death over that whore. She was able to do to her whatever she wanted.

Like a Caesar over the slaves of the Roman Empire.

And now the slaves of HER Empire, of the Human Empire, all of them who at that moment watched dismayed at what was happening to that Vulcan woman who had dared to think that it was possible to rebel against HER Empire…. now they were learning via the live broadcast of the dreadful punishment meted out to that Vulcan slut how the government style of the new Empress would be.

The ancient Caesars would have been proud of her. They could find again, in HER Arena, the same sombre atmosphere which there had been in their Arenas, where people had enjoyed the gory spectacle of defenceless victims being offered to the claws and teeth of tigers and lions, or of the gladiators in combat for their lives and in the hands of the capricious populace's will. Around her the crowd, proud and sure of a power gained through force, had relished the sanguinary show, that unequal fight, had savoured the vain battle of the miserable Vulcan. They had foretasted the inevitable end she would have, and had got more and more fevered, until that moment, until the instant that that alien whore was finally on the verge of falling prey to that abominable Subhuman creature.

Now, if the Empress wanted it, she could put up her thumb, exactly as if she was an ancient Caesar in a moment of magnanimity. She could save that treacherous bitch from the atrocious death; from the painful lunges that primitive Humanoid would make into her body. And into her soul.

But the Empress wouldn't put up her thumb. She would taste her vengeance and her power to the hilt. Her soul was keen, like her mind. And her eyes.

And her eyes were capable of watching those of the Vulcan and of detecting in them what the others weren't able to see. And she laughed silently at her, in satisfaction and in bitchy joy. She laughed at her inane attempt to display, with her spuriously relaxed pose, her indifference towards the fate which was about to engulf her. It was a ridiculous and ostentatious show of superiority over the dire destiny which was on the point of erasing any trace of her damned Vulcan pride, of her dignity.

The Empress laughed at all that, because her sharp eyes were capable of watching those of the Vulcan and of seeing the despairing shadow which danced in them, of recognizing the appalled look with which the Vulcan was following her predator's moves.

And the Empress smiled again.

With a threatening growl at his surviving companions, the murderous Humanoid had established his leadership and his right once and for all, and now he was ready to exert this right.

He stepped over the body of the monster killed by him, staring at the woman sitting in front of him - silently, scornfully, expectantly - and his mouth foamed from the fight's excitation and for his carnal desire.

With only one step the abominable Subhuman was next to her, the tangible sign of his covetousness well evident for all to see.

He seized her as she looked up at him, hardly moving a muscle as he grabbed her by the hair at her nape, and then he twisted ferociously her head to force her closer to that demoniac instrument. So that she could sniff the cloying stench of its hankering and her lips almost brush the bare crimsoned tip.

With a snarl that displayed his fangs, he yanked the Vulcan's hair causing her pain, and then he forcefully pushed that abhorrent thing against her clenched mouth, making it clearly manifest what he wanted. The Vulcan understood then why these demons in the shape of Humanoids got reckoned to be less than beasts, and more than that.

_No. This, no!_

_Her destiny may be dire, but this, no!_

She swiftly lifted herself up to kneel while still held in the grip of the monster. Using her hands she pushed against his abdomen, desperately attempting to keep her face… her mouth… away from that loathsome thing.

_No. No. NO._

_Not this! No. __**NO!**_

A terribly hurtful tug at her hair was the response she got along with a taste of the juggernaut's talons digging into the flesh of her nude shoulder. This was her living nightmare, the pain so intense that her eyes gaped open and she had to bite on her lips to not cry out aloud. She sensed the repulsive pressure of that fiendish tool, against her teeth and gums, and could taste its horrendous flavour while her nose smelt fully its atrocious reek.

_No. Please, no. __**NO.**_

She heard above her the lustful roaring of that incubus, rendered true and real while around her... there were jeering guffaws of those who had reduced her thus.

And, between those horselaughs, one laugh... tiny... cold... that her keen ears were able to pick up, even now... because she knew well from whom that snide, frosty, wry snigger came.

It had accompanied her, constantly, during these days of torture.

In that moment, when she heard that frosty laugh of derision, acknowledging the contentment, the fierce fiendishness that resounded in it, the enjoyment and the complacency, something happened inside her. All of her world had been smashed to smithereens, her soul too and her dignity, all that she had. She had to die, caught between torment and shame because of that hooker who was laughing at her. A wrath she didn't believe could exist, coming from a past she didn't know, when logic had been a mere and inane word; a fury impossible to comprehend, a madness which made her brain blaze, exploded fiercely in her soul and in her mind. It replenished the very fibre of her Katra, filled her body with strength, energy, and a burning rampage that overrode any fatigue, any weakness.

Any pain.

Any repulsion**.**

_Not yet. NOT YET._

_NOT. YET._

That subtle laugh of scorn and of heartless satisfaction wouldn't crush her.

_The fight. Yet. The fight. Tooth and nail. _

_Again._

Was this what her repugnant conqueror wanted her to do to him? Did her persecutors want this too? That strumpet who had called herself Empress?

_And so be it._

_So be it._

_But… with tooth and nail. Once again._

_TOOTH. AND. NAIL._

Her hands darted forth. They seized the sack containing the source of the savage's virile potency, clenching it in a vice that could shatter granite. Her fingernails abraded it potently, as sharp as talons; so strongly, so fiercely that they penetrated skin and flesh.

And, at the same time…

… the barrier that was her teeth, opened, allowing the hellish instrument's entrance.

And, right after…

… the barrier shut again. Powerfully and inexorably.

All the guffaws ceased, everyone became silent and immovable. Even the monster was frozen still by the excruciating pain.

In that astounded silence, in those instants of frost bound incredulity, one sound was heard; clearly and loudly. The spine-chilling sound that the caged and trapped woman let out as she spat out blood that was not hers followed by a carved stub of flesh yet vibrant. She turned her face toward the blanched Empress and the gasping audience and her eyes sparkled with a light of unvanquished defiance and pure joy, savage and satisfied.

Any disgust, any loathing, that she had felt for doing what she had done, faded away at the sight of her dumbstruck persecutors, at the sight of the sallow pallor on the visage of her sworn enemy, that "so-called" Empress, mistress of her life and of her honour, but not of her soul.

_NO. Of her soul, never._

_NEVER._

Then, any further coherent thought became impossible.

She didn't even realize what had happened. She wasn't capable of having full perception of the maelstrom of pain she had been plunged into; of the crunch of her collarbone when the monster broke it with a stony wring of his hand.

She wasn't fully conscious of being catapulted away, of the breathtaking smash of her body against the floor, of her trundling along the floor like a deranged animated skittle, of the end of her crazy rolling against the cage's bars.

She remained crushed on the ground against the bars, her eyes unable to see, her ears to hear, her brain to function.

Maybe she was dead. Maybe it was so, and she had achieved her aim. She wouldn't die of humiliation before her enemies, she had already passed away.

Then, reality's grievous heaviness swooped upon her, with all its painful substance. She was still alive, sadly, bedaubed with her blood and the Humanoid's, surrounded and pervaded by an abyss of pain, on the verge of succumbing to it and to despair.

She knew that she would no longer be able to resist, surrendering to fright and desperation.

She wanted to be able to believe in some God, like Humans do, so that she could pray to Him to give her the release she needed.

She... she wanted someone... someone who was no longer alive... beside her; someone that she had used, and despised, and hurt; and that now she wanted there, to raise her…to comfort her… in his arms… to take her away from all this horror. She wanted to hide her face against his chest, to cry and die... so... in his warmth.

But he... wasn't there.

He would never be beside her again.

She fought desperately to chase away this useless cerebration and her soreness; to regain at least a little of the self-possession she had, and, somehow, she managed to do it, because a thought, sad and nonetheless consolatory even in the middle of all this horror, warmed her lacerated soul.

This time truly death would come to her. This time she would be torn by the mad reprisal of her crippled predator. He was the leader of those odious Humanoids; not one of the two survivors would attack him, and what she had done to him would prevent him from wanting anything but her death. Surely, this time, she had really managed to reach her goal and would die without having been ignominiously raped. She would die atrociously, but rapidly, with her honour; at least with what remained of her honour.

Now… she should show to everyone how she was able to face her death.

_And she would do it. She would._

She wouldn't go back on her promise, she would face her destiny in the way that a Vulcan must do. Humans would know what it meant to be a Vulcan and, if her compatriots had to anathematize her for the consequences of what she had done, at least no one of her race who bore witness to her death would execrate her because she had betrayed her Vulcan heritage.

Slowly, laboriously, fighting off stubbornly and strenuously all the pain soaking every fibre of her being, all the staleness, the exhaustion, the prostration she felt, she began to get up, forcing on her feet and her tremulous legs. Grasping the bars with the hand on her unbroken side, she managed to hoist herself, crawling with her back against the bars until she succeeded in straightening up. She rested her back against the cage's bars.

Worn out.

And ready.

To face her death.

She managed with effort to raise her chin into the air, in defiance of her persecutors. Then the Vulcan looked at the subhuman savage from whom she was expecting her release, shaking her head to try to see him better through the dark-green veil of blood that bedimmed her sight.

And she saw why, one more time, death hadn't already snatched her.

The gigantic part-man was silent and bent in two. His hands, dripping with dark blood, were covering and pressing his affected parts and his humanoid muzzle was twitching with a grimace of unendurable pain. His eyes were half-shut. He was breathing hard. He had been mangled atrociously, there where no male, Human or Inhuman or Subhuman, would be able to bear the pain that such a wound was capable of causing and after his initial and instinctual reaction he was attempting to fight against the terrible violence of such a dreadful injury.

And he seemed weaker, in his attempt and in his posture. Vulnerable, some way.

And his wild and unforbearing inferiors noticed it.

And the law of the jungle, the only law they knew, had its limelight.

Another combat, another furious battle, to the death. For the possession of the female.

For her.

The wild spectacle and her excruciating wait, her hopeless fight, weren't yet at an end.

The two Humanoids had thought to take advantage of the situation, and had attacked their wounded companion, simultaneously. Their brutal instinct had suggested to them that his injury would favour them. But they had miscalculated. The injured but still puissant leader had savagely revolted and dragged them to the ground together with him.

He was wounded, and in pain, but he was the biggest and the strongest, and now he was fighting for his life.

There was a wild and frenzied mixing of claws and fangs, of bites and paws, of bodies which rolled rampantly in the blood on the cage's floor, intertwined with each other. There were ferocious grasps and fierce blows, a frightful and deafening din of snarls, of growls, of bellows, of roars, of snaps, of grumbles, which replenished the air.

Then, there was silence and immobility. Tense. Scary. Scarier, if possible, than all that clatter, that deafening tantrum, that wild rampage which had rocked the cage.

The troglodytes were lying on the ground. The leader and another one were side by side, face down, covering and hiding the third.

They weren't moving, and… weren't breathing.

The tension and the incredulity were palpable in the salon. In the Arena of Death.

The bleary eyes of the exhausted captive were fixed on the motionless heap; she almost couldn't dare to allow her thoughts to take shape. Could it be possible? Could it be possible that… that…?

Then... a movement…

The two inert, immense bodies were shrugged apart and from below, two taloned hands appeared, followed by a fanged apish head and then a gigantic and bleeding body rose slowly in all its height.

Bleeding, but alive and puissant.

And a resonant howl of victory burst forth from its gory mouth .

Then, the feverish eyes of the last Humanoid alighted lustfully on the female, motionless against the cage's bars.

HIS prey. Dazed, dog-tired, wounded, in pain. And at his mercy.

And still… _**rising up**_.

Proud and defiant. Strong in her weakness. Tough in her frailty. Stark naked, and dressed with the armour of her desperate bravery. Untouched, in her humiliation.

Beaten, and not defeated.

She had been hurled into that cage of horrors, nude and defenceless, to be raped and mangled, to be abased and scoffed, to die between shame and torment, and she was still alive, she was still there. She was standing only by the strength of her nerves, but she was still there. She was broken and in pain, oozing green blood from her wounds, but she was still there. She was facing her death, her atrocious death, but her chin was still raised.

The Humans were all on their feet. They liked force; their Empire was based on it, and they respected and appreciated courage, and never would they have believed that they could watch such an exciting spectacle, that the Vulcan would be such a great combatant.

And, behind them, beyond the fence, the Vulcan crowd wasn't able to stay silent. A low murmur rose from the stunned countrymen of the Vulcan captive because their eyes had seen something that they never thought they might watch. And admire.

A born again Warrior Princess, restored to life from the legendary ancient past of Vulcan.

But, now, she was at the end. Now she had to knuckle down and accept her fate.

The fight was at its end; the Vulcan wasn't able to offer anymore resistance and the covetous hunger, of dead flesh and of flesh alive, of the last Humanoid was evident. And it was stimulating, for the pitiless persecutors of the sorest of Vulcan Warrior Princesses; the monster's furious excitement at his victorious combat and at the sight of his prey who would soon be in his claws, promised that there would be a very spectacular final firework.

And under the tense attention of the Humans, of the Vulcans, and of all the countless eyes which were watching the scene, slowly, inexorably, frightful and hideous as a dragon of the ancient fables, the surviving Humanoid began to move toward the doomed Princess.

Silence permeated the salon, that Arena of Death. The silence was palpable.

The Empress was the only one yet sitting. Her face was a blank mask. Things hadn't gone how she would have wanted and she was morose and angry. Mortally angry.

That Vulcan whore should have been impaled and pierced by all those thugs, together and the one after the other, over and over again; should have cried and writhed under the merciless rape; should have fallen on her knees and implored for pity and mercy. Instead she was still standing and haughty, proud. Favoured by the fortune which favours the bold, she had been capable of withstanding her destiny and those creatures, and now, torn, crushed, but still stubbornly defiant, she was facing the last monster, and even if in the end she was fated to be won, to be barbarously abused and killed, she wasn't imploring any pity. Any mercy.

And she had been able to reawaken the pride of her race, even of gaining the respectful and stunned admiration of the Human onlookers.

The lips of the Empress were clenched and wan. Someone would pay for all of this.

Then, her frosty mind perceived what her keen eyes were seeing.

The naked woman in the cage, still erect and looking contumaciously at the world, before the monster unrelentingly advancing toward her...

The Empress had been - she was - a great translator, she knew that the most eloquent language was body language especially when taken together with the language of the eyes. The body and the eyes of her proud victim were telling the Empress that the tenuous diaphragm of self-control and residual strength the Vulcan was attempting to shield herself with, was about to get smashed.

The Empress sneered, with inner smugness. Those eyes, the posture of that nude and torn body were expressing… _delicious_ fear, _pleasurable_ terror, _delightful_ disillusion, _pleasant_ bitterness, _agreeable_ exhaustion, _amiable_ weakness, _adorable_ sorrow, _endearing_ pain and the _lovely... lovely... __**lovely **_desire to cry.

The Empress made herself more comfortable on her throne. She crossed her legs and leaned on the backrest. Ultimately, the final wouldn't be regrettable, wouldn't be disappointing. Most likely, it would be a Grand Finale. Most likely, all that that alien trollop had borne so far would be nothing in comparison with what was in store for her. And, most likely, the Empress might have the joy of hearing that slut beg for mercy.

The Empress focused one more time on the woman in the cage and smiled, evilly, as she observed her eyes. Maybe the Vulcan woman could deceive the others, but not her, the Empress. The eyes of the condemned woman were without light. They were dark, like a dark chasm, which had engulfed her and from where there was no escape. They were eyes without hope.

Oh, yes. It really would be a GRAND FINALE. A finale devoid of any hope for that damn Vulcan whore.

Hope…

The crazy, foolish hope. It was born in the miserable slave's heart and, right away, it was dead.

The fight… the pain… the pride… all useless. Futile.

She would die. Oh, she had known that she would die even if she had defeated the primeval Hybrids, but she had hoped, at that moment, when all the monsters seemed gone, that she would be spared the shame of being possessed by them.

In front of everyone.

In front of her people.

Instead evil destiny had decided to be a cutthroat with her, to make her pay to the extreme for all the errors she had made. She would die without honour, and her death would be remembered so. The last image her people would remember would be... would be...

_Oh no. No. No._

_Why does no one aid her? Why is there not the man...?_

Once again, her thoughts ran to him. Why? He... he was nothing to her, nothing. He was a mere pawn in her game. And… and she had treated him badly, and now… now he was getting his revenge. By means of that monster that would rape her to death, that would suck out of her, both life and honour.

No! No. He... he wouldn't have wanted that. This revenge. He wouldn't. He... he had been different from the others. He had been different even from… her.

And she... she was grateful that he wasn't there, was unable to see her while... while...

Oh, but if he were there, he would come to her aid, he… he would salvage her.

But he was dead, and no one would help her.

_No one. No one. No one._

A deep snarl shook her. The wild part-man was going to jump to catch her.

What should she do? What could she do? She didn't want to die like this! She didn't!

But she had no more strength to fight, to withstand the monster's will. She was already dead-alive.

But yet, in spite of all this, in spite of any logic, of any hope... all over again…. she launched herself into combat.

She found herself trying to run forward, against her predator. By what sort of will power she didn't know. With what strength, she didn't know. To do what, she didn't know

Perhaps, if death spared her, later, if she could have the chance to recover, she would be able to recognize the absurdity of what she was doing at that moment, in those instants of despair and of mental confusion, of befogged thoughts. Her logical mind would realise that it was her inability to think rationally, the inevitable incoherence of her brain, with all that pain, all those wounds, the broken collarbone, the loss of blood, the fatigue, the struggling within to combat fear, shame, regret, in the horror which encircled her.

Perhaps. If death spared her.

Perhaps.

But that wasn't what she wanted. She wanted to die. She wanted death.

She didn't want death to spare her.

And for this, mistily and cussedly, she found the force to pounce against the Part-Human, to battle with him in a final, liberating, mortal combat.

And in her blind courage, in her indomitable will, in that mental bedazzlement, in that obsession with death, she didn't hear the low and still clearly audible sound which rose unstoppably from her people; almost a throttled, restrained ovation of exultation, of stunned pride, coming from her incredulous brothers, unable to control their voices and emotions at the sight of their Warrior Princess still fighting and still defying. Still living and untamable. Unconquerable.

But she wasn't unconquerable, and her body was no longer hers.

She trembled on her legs and slipped on the slimy blood-spattered floor.

She fell down heavily on her knees and her arms, just before the feet of the thug, and the pain that her broken collarbone provoked when her hands clashed against the floor reverberated awfully along all her body.

But death didn't win yet.

She wasn't able to keep her torso raised and she tumbled, her face hitting against the ground. Green blood came from her nostrils and mouth and ache got added to ache.

But death hadn't yet claimed her.

She tried - stubbornly, blindly, desperately - to get up, but a heavy hand struck her back, forcing her down brutally and with his claws scraping deeply and painfully at her skin. She was sliding down in a black hole of pain, of confusion, of powerlessness. She was no longer able to understand anything. The only defined thought was that she wanted to die.

But death decided to play a little bit longer with her. Like a living and wicked creature, death seemed to think there was another more perfidious way to end her life. Definitely death was in league with the Empress.

The dizzy Vulcan was brutally compelled to have a full perception of what destiny was about to make happen to her.

She was forced to sit up by two merciless and clawed hands and found she was kneeling, held by those repellent hands which grasped the delicate flesh of her shoulders. She felt the gigantic and hairy body behind her, and she felt… she felt a heavy breath on her neck, something damp and slimy trickled down her shoulder. She heard the deep grumble of the monster in her ear and felt the horrendous pressure of his subhuman muzzle on her flesh.

The appalling reality of her coming doom exploded in her mind.

The savage Humanoid had kneeled behind her, and was positioning himself to take her from behind. The moisture she felt was the saliva of the monster, who slobbered with lust and desire on her skin. And, shortly, he would… he would…

_**No!**_

She twisted and tried desperately to free herself, to push away that abhorrent contact.

An angry snarl, a painful grip on her flesh, an aching flaying of the tusks on her neck... this was the brutal response to her futile endeavour.

She had neither chance nor strength, by now. She hadn't hope. She was condemned.

_Condemned. COMDEMNED._

She was forced to bend forward, feeling the monster still erect, kneeling behind her. He was getting closer…

_**NO!**_

She tried to budge away, fidgeting frantically, pulling her body away using the force of despair. It was in vain. She vaguely perceived that she was offering her audience the sight she had sworn she wouldn't display, but she didn't want the monster to...

_**SHE DIDN'T WANT!**_

SHE. DIDN'T.

And so, who knows with what will, with what force, she kept combating.

Clenched in a vise that was without salvation and that was heartlessly forcing her body and her soul to relent, she didn't surrender.

By now without thought, without awareness; convicted and entrapped, fated and disrupted, she persisted in fighting and holding on and resisting. Under the unrelenting pressure of her predator she continued to strain as she hung on to life. She seemed to onlookers to be like a tragic, sorrowful, broken Greek statue that still had a strength that was beyond all reason; beyond logic and lucidity, beyond reality. Beyond worldliness and hopefulness. Beyond life and death.

She went on withstanding, while her brain was falling headlong into the deepest darkness.

And in that seemingly endless instant, she felt a feeling rising from inside her; from the despair which iced her soul, from the rage which burned her mind; a thing unknown, that she hadn't before experienced, the fruit of the annihilating hopelessness that wrapped her Katra.

It was a cry.

Of wrath, of despair, of regret. Of impotence.

The Vulcan closed her eyelids, striving hard, though to no avail to stop the first tears of her life.

And the last.

She tasted the flavour of her crying on her lips, as the murkiness began to engulf her overwhelmed mind and nothingness was gulping her sobbing soul.

And while she still fought her stubborn, blind, hopeless battle, continuing to fight to the end; while – Thankfully. Finally – she was plummeting into the gloominess of unconsciousness…

Just then…

Just before she has been conquered, before she had to cede….

The world deflagrated around her.

* * *

Dazzling lights. In the dark. Explosions. Sounds. Yells. Squawks. Wails.

In the fog of her mind.

Blood.

Blood, blood, blood.

All upon her, around her.

A weight. A body. Hairy, smelly. Heavy, inert. Upon her.

Two hands, two arms. Strong. Known.

They grasp her, free her, lift her up. Wrap her. Cover her, hold her tightly, protect her.

Running quickly, corridors, people fighting, strangely dressed...

Shots, flames, tussles. Confusion.

Confusion, confusion. Around her, Inside her.

A face, strained, stiff...

A horrible scar, deforming, pulsating across his visage...

An eye, blue, gashed...

Watchful.

Looking ahead.

A scent... His scent...

Untrue! Untrue!

He was dead. DEAD! It couldn't be his smell.

It couldn't be his face.

They were not his arms.

She... she wasn't held by them, between them, inside them.

But... what did it matter, after all?

She felt herself raised in his arms... comforted in their embrace... safe in them.

She felt them to be real. She was able to _**feel**_ them. They were taking her away from all that horror.

What did it matter if it was all untrue? If it was the last dirty trick that destiny was playing on her, on her woozy mind? On her soul, wounded and mutilated?

All that mattered was that she was able to hide her face on his chest, and to cry, and to die... so... in his warmth.

**

* * *

****End of Chapter Two**

TBC

_**DIE?**_


	3. Chapter 3 Battlefield

**The** **Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

_**Chapter three – **__**Battlefield**_

* * *

Poor T'Pol. What a tremendous ordeal she had to bear.

But she was the winner, after all. Do not you think, my friends?

Sure, sure; but now, what the hell will happen?

And who saved her? Tucker? Really? But he was dead, for Pete's sake!

Mh… Oh well. Maybe it's better that you read this chapter, I think. (Obviously if you want to do it).

Only, remember: it is still the Mirror Universe; it is evil, remember that. Maybe this chapter is not as hard as the second, but we are still talking of a Universe which doesn't know pity.

Anyway, enough now.

Let us arrange the Battlefield.

_One last thing: my dear __**Opalsmith**__, my dearest friend, thank you again. Your job in editing this chapter was wonderful._

* * *

"Reed!"

Choked and angry, and with what sounded unmistakably like fear, finally the voice of the Empress burst forth from her mouth; after she had regained a little of her mind functionality. She tried to mollify the dryness of her lips by passing her tongue over them but it was also as dry as her throat.

"Reed! Damn you!" She shouted aloud, her voice squeaky and coming from beneath the bodies which were weighing down on her.

A hand seized her arm and extracted her with force from under those inert forms.

She found herself standing up on rickety legs and she looked wide-eyed at the face of the one who had helped her.

Travis was in front of her, the hand supporting her was his. He was staring at her with strained eyes. His face looked drained and there was a wound on his forehead which was bleeding copiously.

The Empress gazed at the blood which flowed down her paramour's visage, all over his attractive features.

She inhaled sharply and lowered her eyes to examine herself; to discover what was causing the clammy wetness she felt on her skin. To see if it was blood.

It was.

But it was the blood of her bodyguards.

Breathing harshly, echoing the breathing of her gigolo, she regarded the bodies which had covered her with their flesh and blood, and had protected her.

Her eyes lingered over them.

They were all dead.

As also was the Terran Prefect.

She inspired herself to be hard again, and then lifted her head to look around.

From among the glares of the fires, which were flaring up everywhere, from among the debris; the dust and the death fug which permeated the air, the Empress looked at her people.

She heard their shouts of pain, and listened to their whines of agony.

She watched her soldiers while they attempted to stir themselves; to regain their discipline; to react. To restrain the crowd of Vulcans, who, thank goodness, were too shocked themselves to be able to do anything.

A dull wrath started to rise inside her, taking the place of the fear and of the dismay which had got hold of her.

She looked aloft at the high vaulting roof of the palace. Spirals of acrid and dense smoke hovered there, inside and all around the enormous chasm, from where the Inferno had plummeted down on them. She saw the uprooted video-cameras, wrecked and dangling from the walls. The devices which should have broadcast her triumph to many worlds and peoples were now displaying her failure, the larceny of her vengeance.

Her rage grew until it was a burning flame.

How had it been possible? HOW? Reed! REED! That incapable! That hopeless, unable to do anything right toy soldier.

The Empress turned around in a fury and yelled out in her ire, "Reed! Show yourself, damn you, you so called General; the greatest of warriors!"

At the lack of response from her commander-in-chief, she screeched again in a shrill voice. "REED!"

"I don't think he can respond."

Mayweather's cold response drew the Empress's attention. He had finished with the ritual formula, "…Your Majesty," but, the Empress could swear that there was a hint of a mocking tone in his respectful appellation.

She was going to reprimand him, when her brain grasped the full meaning of his words. She watched Mayweather's face intently and he reciprocated her gaze. Then without a word he stepped aside and allowed her to see.

Mayweather's body had kept the cage out of her sight, but now the Empress was able to have a full view of it. It looked completely unbalanced; the bars seemed to have been hit by a tremendous energy, and were still steaming, looking broken and blackened. It no longer had a ceiling and in the middle of its bloody floor, far from his inert companions, lay the last monster, the one who had been on the point of fulfilling the ruthless revenge desire of the Empress. Or, rather, only what remained of him was lying there: a vast and motionless body, bleeding and yet fumigant from the mortal discharge which had killed him, the noisome smell emanating from his burned flesh abhorrently plaguing the air.

And, hanging from the twisted bars, just in front of the dumb struck sovereign, was another body, lashed to the cage by his arms.

They were handless arms. And the body was headless. The head had been severed from its neck.

The blood which trickled copiously down the uniform the maimed body was wearing wasn't enough to hide who it had belonged to.

It was the body of the one who once had been Malcolm Reed.

* * *

She was screaming, crying, and squirming, in terror and pain. Vaguely she was aware the nightmare wasn't true, that she was actually sleeping, that there was no longer a Monster clawing at her.

But in her mind the cage was still real and her heart was beating furiously while she clinched her teeth until they creaked against each other.

And she screamed, cried, and squirmed.

Caught in the horror of her madness.

* * *

Reclined on her large bed, the Empress was watching her troops on the screen which was situated in her royal private apartment. Things were going satisfactorily. It had been a good idea to assign the command to Hayes; it had been necessary to find someone able and skilled to replace Reed.

The Empress wasn't able to repress the slight shiver which ran along her spine.

She stirred, ill at ease, and moved to the edge of the bed, while her eyes observed the ranks of her army on the ground without seeing them.

Instead of her armada, it seemed to her that that a body without a head and with arms, which ended in two bloody stumps, and were enchained to the cage's bars, was displayed on the screen.

Who had reduced Reed so? Why? In the middle of an attack clearly led to save that Vulcan whore? There was only one person the Empress thought was capable of doing that. The only man who had nourished such a dire rancour towards Reed because of the tortures the deceased Commander-in-Chief had compelled him to suffer, and even more because of the lustful desires Reed had for the woman whom this man had felt belonged to him; everyone was aware of the affair between him and that Vulcan tart, they had done nothing to hide it, and everyone knew of Reed's propensity towards that slut, because he too hadn't done anything to conceal his craving.

Only this person might have wanted to rescue the Vulcan traitress and at the same time take vengeance on his enemy. Also…the Empress again felt a chill run along her back... yes, and also deliver a clear warning to all of them.

She knew what it meant. The decapitated head…_to have no chance to have_ _thoughts of any kind; ever again_. The missing hands…_no possibility to do anything, ever again_. The threat had been made that it could happen to all of them; to all who had harmed that damned Vulcan female...what she, the Empress, had ordered be done.

The Empress tried to think coldly, chasing away the subtle fear she felt. However the more she thought about what had happened, the more she was convinced that she wasn't mistaken. Actually, there could only be one man capable of such horrible vengeance, so cruelly unmerciful, as she, the Empress, was; as was the way in the evil world where they all lived; while contemporaneously being capable of feeding dark yet still romantic feelings, so strong and untameable that he had wanted to save the woman who had betrayed the Empire and who had also had the sense to deceive this man. The Empress knew the treacherous behaviour of that Vulcan hooker toward her saviour; she knew it for sure.

But, in spite of all that, this man had thrown himself into that undertaking, because… because he was a very special man, the only man among all those the Empress had known, who, unconsciously, seemed to put feelings, even if they were dark, above flesh and ambition.

_And who, for those reasons alone, she had wanted to possess. _The Empress almost grunted in a miff…_and hadn't had._

That Vulcan hussy had had him. She had entrapped him in her web, to the extent that he had risked his life to free her.

Anger and jealousy leavened inside the Empress.

That Vulcan bitch had defeated her, had plotted against the Empire, and had taken the man she, the Empress, should have possessed, and, now that harlot was free, far from her revenge, and liberated by exactly the one person who she had treated so badly and heartlessly.

The thoughts of the Empress seemed not to be able to break free from the twisting around and around in her head.

And that stupid and skilful man, the one who held the secret to make ships function in his hands; that man, whose power could have been increased by his unique ability to handle engines and the engineering, including the new technologies they had acquired; that man had thrown himself into the attack just for the beautiful eyes of a woman unworthy of such dedication.

Why hadn't it been her, Hoshi Sato the Great, the mistress of the Empire's Destiny, why had she not been the one to have such a lucky fate?

What a couple she and he could have been. His knowledge combined with her craftiness; his strength and her ductility; his bravery and her capacity for manipulation; his stubbornness and her artfulness.

His body coupled with her body.

She, oh yes; she would be capable of solacing him for the gash that marked his visage, the brand of his job, the stigma that the Vulcan bitch hadn't been able to appreciate; to relish.

The sign that was his fatal abnegation.

Tucker.

Tucker! TUCKER!

He. HE! Only he could have been the one!

Only he could have the motivation and the boldness to make that attack.

Sure. Only him.

The Empress suddenly raised her head, frowning and uncertain. The absurdity of her thoughts struck her.

_Sure. Only him._

But he was dead.

_

* * *

_

Save me! Enough! Stop!

_PLEASE!_

Fear, pain, shame. Horror.

Without end.

But no! It wasn't true. She was safe and far from all that horror.

He had saved her.

But he was dead.

But in that case, she should still be in the cage, still fighting against all that horror. That one, the Cage of Horror, would be her true fate.

As the fear, the pain, the shame.

The horror.

But his arms had been true. She had felt them.

And...it seemed so real; that voice. His voice...

Low ...and raucously threatening.

"It's taking too much time, Phlox. Her body is healing but her mind is not. Days and days have passed and after all the cures you've used, I find her to be so panic-stricken, still engulfed in all that horror. And she doesn't seem to want to wake up. See to do something, Doc. It will be better. Believe me. Better for your health!"

* * *

The Empress tried to stir herself. It wasn't the right time to have such thoughts. The battle was about to start and that was all that should matter at present. She focused again on the screen. Her troops were deployed; General Hayes was waiting for her signal. The ship was ready to provide air support. The crew on the bridge and the rest of her vessel were all awaiting her orders. At her nod, hell would be unleashed on the heads of the rebels and then her army would crush them in its mortal embrace.

After the public debacle of her failed demonstration of strength; the flop that should have been her finest act of revenge, it had been hard and difficult to hold onto power. The rebel's self-assurance had increased, and their military forces had attracted new recruits, not to mention the renewed vigour that the internal resistance ranged against her had acquired.

But her lover was right; certainly he didn't have Archer's virulence and bitchy strength, and because of that she had thought to take advantage of him, following his own prompting. He had been capable of pushing her to free herself from Archer's cumbersome leadership and was now her docile servant, glad to savour the power of her reflected might and the warmth of her proffered body. Never would he have the will to leave the shadows and expose himself to the full light and this suited her fine. Yet his mind was keen, as was his body… strong. She remembered his words; and his puissance.

"_No haste. Order. One thing at a time, Your Majesty."_

That was what he had said to her in their alcove, while she was attempting to recover from her rout with his hot help, the night after the robbery of her jubilation.

"_First of all, the rebels,"_ he had gone on, while his hands greedily tasted her flesh. _"Nothing's changed, that's the priority,"_ his mouth had sighed on her skin. _"Force is still ours, we will crush their defences,"_ he had murmured, while he was crushing her own defences. _"The deposed Emperor is boneless and unwarlike, surrounded by a court of spineless flatterers, all ready to follow the winner. He is not a danger. We will take care of him, afterwards."_

The Empress sighed without thinking, while she relived the mighty thrust which had meaningfully accompanied that '_afterwards'_.

"_And as for the unknown people who attacked us, they will know our revenge. We have found some traces of their origin in our scans; we will find them. And we will shatter them."_ And then he had shattered her, stifling with his mouth, her shouts of pleasure on her mouth.

* * *

Fingers, well-known, on her mouth, were attempting to stifle her shouts. Softly, softly! It was the sweetness that he alone was capable of showing, even amid his toughness. When he had made love with her.

It was untrue. Untrue! It was not his voice. Or the voice of Phlox! He too had died, he too!

Nevertheless...nevertheless it seemed to be Phlox's voice! Although it trembled slightly, as if the speaker was in fearful awe.

"Commander...viz...General Tucker, I swear, she is recovering; even her mind. What she experienced was tremendously traumatic, even for a strong Vulcan like her, not to mention all the days and the nights she spent, before that terrible ordeal, among deprivations and tortures. So I had to sedate her - potently. And inevitably the sedation has affected the working of her brain circuits. Now, though, it's time for her to wake up and just because of all that, she responds like this. She is fighting in a world between dreams and reality but this is the end of it, General, I swear. Look at the medical monitor that is maintaining a close surveillance of her condition, look at it. She is fighting to wake up and because of that she is agitated and cries out. But this is about to finish, she is going to wake up. And you shall see, General Tucker, you shall see: she will be sane and in good health. I swear, General. I SWEAR!"

_General... Tucker?_

* * *

"General Hayes is waiting, Your Majesty. We all are. Your presence is required on the command bridge."

Once more her paramour's voice recalled the Empress to reality. She looked at his figure astir in the doorway. She had to be more careful; although he could be a hot lover, she shouldn't get lost in that way, couldn't allow her body to guide her thoughts and her actions. Things had changed since she was a sex-toy for love games in the bed of the potent of the moment. She had an Empire to lead, now. And a rebellion to crush.

She got up in a majestic fashion and her voice was grave, "Let's go," as she preceded her beau to go to the bridge; after he had respectfully given way to her.

As she entered, the people waiting there stood up and bowed their heads.

She ignored them and made her orders in a loud voice, while looking at the screen, standing haughty before it, her arms folded across her chest.

"Shooting emplacements!"

"Ready, Your Majesty. At your beck and call."

"General Hayes!"

"At your orders, Your Majesty. We are ready at your call."

Hayes' voice rang loud in the bridge from his position on the world below the ship. The last stronghold of the surviving rebels was on that world.

Soon, the town; the rebels' extreme bulwark would be a heap of steaming ruins and then her army on the planet would spread out to exterminate the rebel residual forces, and the survivors would then taste the same horror as that which the Vulcan whore had been able to escape.

But she, the Empress, Hoshi Sato the Great, intended find that Vulcan strumpet again. Yes, she would find her again and finish what had been started. She would retrieve that Vulcan bitch.

Wherever she was.

* * *

Where… where she was? The cage… That… that name…

"Doctor... "

Again she heard his voice, while the nightmarish images in her brain were becoming less distinct. Whoever had touched her mouth had gone away, and she opened her lips, as if searching for that touch which she thought she had lost forever.

"My dearest Doctor…"

Menace.

"General! No!"

Phlox again. Fear.

Her mind went into combat to clear the last of the nightmares; only relaxing when the last had faded away. They disappeared into the fog of her soul and finally the hard real world claimed her.

Her eyes fluttered open, with effort.

"My dearest, dearest Doctor... "

Violence.

"NO NO! General, NO!"

Prayer.

She turned her face to look in the direction of the voices she could hear.

"She is waking. Really General, really. She..."

Surprise. Relief.

"General! Her eyes! Watch her eyes! Please. PLEASE!"

She fought to focus her eyes…

And then she saw.

* * *

The Empress raised her arm to impose silence. Not one sound could be heard around her.

Then as she lowered her hand, she issued the command.

"Fire."

* * *

"Welcome back to the world, Princess."

He was there, in front of her. He was not a vision, he was real.

He was smiling at her with his sardonic smile and the blue of his eyes were coruscating while his scar seemed to pulsate across his jeering visage.

She was unable to do anything. She merely watched him in silence, motionless, with bewilderment painted all over her face.

He laughed, a mocking and yet cheerful laugh. "Never fear, Baby, you're alive. I'm not a ghost."

She endeavoured to fight against how dazed and weak she felt, trying to raise her upper body up from the bed, as she stretched out her arm to try and touch him; to be sure that what she was seeing was true.

"Ah no, Milady, no." He took hold of her raised hand and with an unfamiliar softness pushed her back onto the bed, gently pressing against her shoulder with his other hand. Then he smirked sarcastically in his usual way. "Still the same pig-headed and logical female, eh, my dear Vulcan? Eh, I know, all of this is illogical, isn't it? But - what do you want? - I'm such an illogical man... I am so very illogical that I am alive, when I should be dead."

Then he frowned and clenched his lips. He spoke with bitterness, "So very illogical that I wanted to save you…after what you did to me."

The Vulcan batted her eyelids, in acknowledgement. And in shame, while a subtle feeling of fear crept into her. It was true, she had... she had...

Her thoughts about him, the thoughts she had had during her desperate fight, when, inexplicably, she had desired to have him near her, to help her and to save her, violently invaded her mind. Now those thoughts, that desire, that she hadn't even imagined she might have had, apparently had become reality, but… - She sighed deeply, unsure. - … but now, if all that was true… what would he do to her?

As if he was reading her mind, he burst into laughter and then in-between chuckling, spoke again, "Eh sure. How very illogical I am. Though, not to the point of risking my own life to rescue you simply so that I can take my revenge on you."

The Vulcan listened to him, trying to understand. She attempted to speak but her voice was feeble and stunted. She was only able to emit one word.

"Why?"

The man, who had been standing stiffly upright in front of her, visibly sagged. He stared at her for an instant, dour, as if trying to gather his thoughts.

Finally he started to talk again, although he didn't respond to her question. His voice sounded strangely quiet. "If I am illogical, see to make sure that you are the logical woman that you say you are. Do not talk; do not make any effort to do so; be quiet, think only that you must recover well." Then, almost as speaking to himself, he added in a very low tone, half-and-half between seriousness and what sounded like a sort of forced jocosity. "Explanations' time can wait. For now, simply see that my illogical feats don't get wasted."

Suddenly, as if willing to show that he was still the same caustic and unpredictable man, he put on his habitual dark and sardonic mask and spoke while chuckling and apparently amused. "Most likely our friend here, standing behind me, won't be glad to think about my reaction, if you don't heal perfectly." He turned slightly and pointed with his index finger at person behind him. His gesture seemed playful, as was his tone; but it also sounded subtly ominous.

"Right, Phlox?"

* * *

The ship rumbled deeply, it trembled, and then there were a series of bangs, strong and puissant, all in rapid succession. Then a whoosh was heard, loud and prolonged.

Then silence.

All the eyes on the bridge were focused on the screen, on the last rebel city.

* * *

Harrad-Sar was observing the screens in his large command room, surrounded by all of his Officers; Orions, Tellarites, Andorians, Denobulans, Vulcans, as well as an assortment of other species also under the heel of Human Empire.

All were Commanders of different groups that, in many worlds, had dared revolt against the dire power of the Emperor, and even against the will of the majority of their fellow citizens.

Harrad-Sar laughed bitterly to himself. To be honest, the Officers were all that remained of the rebellion after the usurper, the new Empress, had taken command and used the new technology the doom had given her; so that she could to take hold of power and to quell the rebellion.

Rapidly and with a ruthless efficiency, which was a feature of the human military organization, an acquired heritage from their military history, Humans had subdued so many races, even those who were older and more advanced than them but unprepared to face such an aggressive species. Well then, with that kind of effective determination, the ships of the Human Space Fleet had been supplied with the new weapons, and from that moment the fate of the rebels was marked.

Harrad-Sar tried to fight against his thoughts and not allow his awareness; that they faced an imminent rout, an idea which gripped his chest, to influence his appearance and his usual conduct. He was the General-in-chief, the Supreme Commander and the only surviving political major player in the whole alliance.

He almost burst out laughing, openly, in bitter cheerfulness, at the pomposity of what he had thought.

General-in-chief; the Supreme Commander; political major player: now he was General-in-chief of what? Of what alliance was he Supreme Commander? In truth he was the last battered leader of an alliance of improvised and disheartened rebels that did not understand the worth of an articulated and coordinated organisation until the final outcome of the disastrous revolt, whose military actions had not been co-ordinated and which had lacked real political and unitary leadership.

That was who he was; the Supreme Commander. The beings surrounding him were what was left the alliance.

They had to be on the edge of disaster in order to comprehend this simple truth; only unity and coordination could bring victory against a well organized state, with disciplined armed forces.

Harrad-Sar indulged in a faint and sad smile. It was all too late. Probably there had been a chance before the Imperial Forces retrieved that damned ship, the _Defiant_. His spies had had told them everything. Yes, at that time it would have been possible, but afterwards... - He managed to suppress a sigh of sorrow which had demanded be freed from his lungs while his eyes still stared at the screens, waiting with bated breath, as were all the others. - … Afterwards and when, after practically all the military Commanders were dead, the rebels had decided to pull together their residual forces under the command of only one leader, - him – everything had already been lost.

And so, there they all were; together, awaiting their fate, in the city where everything had begun and where everything would soon end.

Harrad-Sar attentively watched the central screen. It showed a bird's-eye view of the city, sent from the artificial satellite that was still orbiting and broadcasting from on high; most likely its last transmission before it was destroyed by the Imperial flagship.

It was a magnificent town, golden and agleam, great and vast, shining brightly in the morning light.

Harrad-Sar felt pride inflate his chest. The town was the never conquered heart of Orion Syndicate, which Human invaders had never managed to reach and vanquish.

Until now.

For centuries, raiders hailing from his species had come from space to pillage men, women and children from that town, to sell in the slave markets of the Orion territory; around that proud town their potency had grown and other cities rose elsewhere, in worlds which became theirs and from where their pirate ships had scattered terror, the terror that even Humans, for all their vainglory and the power could not help but feel at the sight of Orion vessels swooping down upon them like gray sparrow hawks.

It had not an accident that that the revolt had started with his species. What for the others was an incomprehensible way of life; not being organized in a veritable state, against which Humans were unable to lead a well planned military campaign; their ability to act as a loose brotherhood of semi-freelance corsairs; their fierce spirit of independence; all of these were things that the others didn't possess, the spark necessary to ignite the rebellion's flame.

Pursued, persecuted, sought, the pirate vessels, now transformed into genuine privateers for guerrilla warfare, were always there to remind the dominators of space that there were people who were yet free, who were able to fight against them, and their coruscant capital, they were sought and never found, and became the symbol of the slight waft of freedom that blew, subdued, underground; until the waft had become a storm, which had powerfully pounced at the heads of the human seigneurs.

Until now.

Harrad-Sar regarded the high towers, the svelte golden minarets silhouetted against the blue sky; the dashing domes.

A heartbreaking sadness clenched his soul.

_Until now. Until the end._

Now those towers, those minarets, those domes shining with gold and silver...they will shatter onto the ground.

They will become dust.

Together with him and all those gathered there.

* * *

The Empress sat down on her command chair; which was shaped like a throne, and she quietly looked at the screen.

She placidly crossed her legs.

Standing next to her, Travis discreetly placed his hand on her high backrest, just as a respectful and duteous prince consort must do.

There was still some moments to wait.

* * *

T'Pol looked at the Doctor. So, it was true, she hadn't deceived herself. Phlox was alive, and she had really heard his voice.

The surprise she had felt and the force, with which the reality of Tucker's presence had struck her, had prevented her from noticing him at first, as well as the ambience of the place where she was. It was a large and dim room, similar in some ways to a Vulcan lodging, with respect to the aspect and furnishings, but simpler; it was Spartan, as was the bed where she was resting, as was the Vulcan-like blanket which covered her. Now she was able to notice all that, as well as the strange clothes that Tucker wore, a sort of armour, which seemed made of rawhide.

She observed him, from behind, while he was still facing the Doctor. Her mind practically went by its own volition to that appellative; that name she seemed to have heard during her difficult awakening... that title Phlox had used to address Tucker.

General Tucker.

What did it mean? What was meant by her surroundings? Where was she? What was that familiarity, mixed with diversity that she recognized in her current environment?

Her silent wonderings were broken by Tucker, who, reverting his mocking eyes to her, spoke again. "More and more illogical, isn't it Baby? Two ghosts in only one blow. Eh, but ghosts don't exist." He sneered mischievously. "The late lamented Vulcan High Command denied their existence, didn't they? Who knows what they would think of all this, if only we Humans hadn't destroyed them at the time of our conquest of Vulcan."

T'Pol did not pay any notice to his banter, as offensive as it was. Too many questions were whirling around in her mind; too many and all too weird, meaning that she wasn't able to suppress a questioning and puzzled look from forming on her face. Tucker immediately detected that look and what it meant. His percipience had always been more than merely notable - T'Pol knew that perfectly - and now it seemed to her to be even keener, if that was possible; judging by his words and behaviour.

He scowled in response to what he had read in her face; his eyes serious, almost flaming with restrained rage. "I said that explanations must wait. Wasn't I clear enough? This time the one who has the upper hand is me, my dear beautiful Vulcan." He beckoned to Phlox. "The Doctor can testify to that." Then he pointed his index finger at her. "You can only do one thing: obey me." His voice became low, almost threatening. "And I am ordering to you not to ask questions."

Then a strange look appeared in his eyes. T'Pol was incapable of defining it. It seemed… What? How could it be described? Was it an almost imperceptible sign that he was worried? Or that he cared? Was that possible? But what was she thinking? Was her mind still lost in a dream; there was no other possibility for the perceptions she believed she had observed. Nevertheless…nevertheless he had saved her, he had done that. Why? Again the question pervaded her mind.

_Why?_

And just while she was trying to find the thread of that tangled hank, Tucker lowered his hand and added a few words. "You must only rest, T'Pol. And recover. Soon and well."

Those words, the tone he pronounced them with, resounded...resounded… _How did they resound?_

T'Pol felt an unknown sensation inside her; she was unable to recognize it, but it was… pleasant. Pleasant. Yes.

She was incapable of labelling it, she didn't know that it could exist in the universe where they lived; maybe in that other Universe, the one the _Defiant_ had come from... but there, in their reality, so rough, so ... iniquitous. Iniquitous: that was the right word. She had never dwelt on this idea before, for her their reality was what it was; but now…

She didn't understand.

And she couldn't comprehend why he was transmitting this new sensation with his words, which emanated from a man with a fathomless demeanour. A man who had all the reason to retaliate against her; he was someone she had treated unfairly and badly, whom she had ignominiously deceived. Even although she had only acted in the way she knew; the way she had been taught. The way of their universe.

She had been attracted to him, sure, but… but she had also had to satisfy her needs, so... well then... it was logical - _logical_ - that she had thought to do it with a man she found... appealing. A...agreeable, in some way.

But still when she had been in the cage, she had had those thoughts about him; and he had rescued her from her doom; and he seemed to speak to her, when he dropped his habitual rough way, as if she was important to him, or, at least she had got that impression.

How could this be possible? Him? Tucker? A… a Human? Tucker, the most Human of Humans?

_She… didn't understand._

She stared at his eyes. Perplexed; uncertain. And, in the end, she didn't know why, she had to speak, to say to him... "I will obey you."

And she was sincere.

She abandoned her head on the cushion and allowed her body to relax on the bed. For reasons she didn't comprehend and didn't want to inquire, she was experiencing something that she had never known before, something that she… relished.

Safety? Protection? She didn't know what that meant. She had never used those words, they were unknown to her. They were things that had never been a part of her life, not even when she had been a child, even if, sometimes, she had felt the need of something like that. And...and, indefinably, she had felt a hint of those sensations for the first time when she had been in the arms of the man who now seemed to inspire them. But all that appeared impossible, illogical, without sense. Most likely she still had to be purged from all that she had been through; ordeals of the sort she had experienced could not pass without leaving wounding marks; even the Doctor had expressed that concept.

But, after all, did it matter? All that she knew was that it was a nice sensation. And she didn't need to know anything else, for now.

Explanations could wait; for now… for now she only wanted to obey.

As Tucker looked into her dark eyes, he seemed to her he was also uncertain and searching for the right words. Finally he spoke, and his voice sounded unsure, as he simply said "Very well."

At that moment the door at the far end of the room opened, and a man entered.

* * *

Harrad-Sar could almost perceive, tangibly, the grievous thoughts which seemed to permeate the atmosphere; his thoughts and the ones coming from his companions. That was, obviously, normal; wasn't it normal that people get immersed in their sorrowful thoughts when they are living moments like these? Probably, what were the last moments of their lives?

Indeed, their lives. He was sure that each and every one of them was reliving their lives; what they had done, disliked, and relished, and those things that they would never do again; or dislike. Or relish.

Like him.

He observed with even greater grief the luminous city on the screen.

Oh yes, it was a very beautiful city, so sweet to the eyes, under the terse sky and in the middle of the verdant plain where she seemed to sensuously lie, like a bride in her mellow waiting for her groom.

And it was his town. There, he had been born; there he had grown up; and there he had started on the path to become what he was now.

It was there, that he had learned to be an Orion Pirate; and had become the best, the cruellest, the most pitiless of all pirates. And the bloodthirsty corsair-warrior he was.

Suddenly, it seemed as if his past was there; the yells of his victims rang through his mind; it seemed to him that he could see their visages, the tears on the cheeks of the women, the expression of fearful incomprehension and the affright on the children's faces.

He had lived all of that, it had been his road, which he had walked along, proud and fierce, ignoring the pain he had given, the pain, the desperation that had made his town so glorious. Now, just there, in the city of his pride, that was the pride of his race, he was bitterly tasting the acrid flavour of the sorrow he had dispensed without parsimony or regret, and it was a very cold comfort to him that not one of the other species that were drinking this bitter cup with him and his people in this nefarious universe which possessed them all, was without sin.

Could it be possible - strange how such thoughts came to his mind - that all of this was their punishment?

Harrad-Sar was unable to recognize himself. Never had he had such thoughts before, but maybe the imminence of death can push men towards such ideas.

Those Humans, could they be, by chance, the Nemesis for their sins? The sword with which some Superior Entity wanted to punish them for all the evil they had done? But, in that case, should he believe that everyone - EVERYONE - not only his cruel race of bandits and pirates should deserve such a dire fate?

No, it wasn't possible. There had to be some light, somewhere, for this godless universe.

Humans weren't different from the others, weren't the chastisement for their crimes. And...even they, if what was rumoured was true, might have a heart; if it wasn't a fable that one of them, that famous engineer, that Tucker, had saved that Vulcan female, that T'Pol, who it was said had belonged to him, from the horrible punishment the Empress had devised for her. Or, at least, this was the popular story; or maybe, only the common desire to wish that such an unbelievable love liaison could exist, an underground aspiration for a different world. Sure, because that man was dead, this was well-known; and because, in reality, nobody had witnessed exactly what had happened in the bedlam of that day, when the Empress had been depredated of her revenge.

The truth was that nobody knew who had launched that attack against the Empire.

Could it be that the Humans had their own Nemesis?

Oh enough, now, enough to have such thoughts; even if... yes... even if it was... it was sweet, consolatory, in someway, thinking that such a flower could blossom between a Vulcan woman, a female of a subdued race, and a sullen, glowering, grim, arrogant Human man.

It seemed to be a very tenuous hope for the future, now, that all was hopeless for them.

Now, in fact, all that the rebels had left was that city - and their pride.

The surviving rebels had barricaded themselves into the town after all their space vessels had been destroyed. It was their last fortress, their citadel of pride. In there, they - men, women, children; of all species - were waiting for their marked end, well aware that surrender would be worst than death.

It was all which remained theirs; all that they had. No other city, no other village, no other borough, besides that town was under their control, all of the others had been crushed in the mortal vice of the Empress' armies, one falling after the other, under the ruthless guidance of General Hayes, the scourge of the Empire.

General Hayes. Sure. And his Imperial Legions.

Harrad-Sar's eyes went to the screen that displayed the Imperial Army.

The army surrounded the city on every side. It was immense and impressive.

There were rows and rows of enormous armoured vehicles; and hiding in their metal wombs were innumerable cohorts of well trained infantrymen, ready to pour out at the right moment and march in a disciplined and unstoppable manner against them.

That had been the force of Human Empire, since the start of its expansion. Infantry, ground troops able to fight anywhere and to conquer what spaceships and aircrafts could only destroy. They were assisted by every kind of well-engineered conveyance, capable of acting on land or sea, in the air or in the forests, on the mountains or the plains. Troops were recruited from any world, with the promise of some privilege, and under the firm command of the Human Officers they were framed into their iron discipline.

And Hayes had been able to reorganize this powerful army, owned by Humans, perfectly, in a short time, continuing the job the tremendous Malcolm Reed had begun, so that they could efficiently complete what the spaceships started.

Harrad-Sar's eyes lingered on the waiting army, tidily deployed over the plain, after disembarking from the cargo ships; a disembarkation that nobody had been able to contest, and which had only been made to demonstrate the Empire's strength.

Harrad-Sar was well aware of that, as were the others: the bloody conquering of the city, instead of allowing it to be easily destroyed by the Human ships, would provide for a fierce resistance on the land; but, just for this, it would be the meaningful spectacle at the end of rebellion for the Empress to offer to everyone.

And may it be so; as he knew they would sell their skin at great cost to the enemy. It wouldn't be a smooth walk for the Terran Army; the weapons they had weren't able to even heckle the Human spaceships, but they were enough to disrupt the Human war machines with their load of human and other species' lives before they managed to penetrate the city's defences. Blood would flow over the plain.

Harrad-Sar's smile was sinister; there would be a bloodbath. Especially of Human blood.

Then, he looked at the third screen, and he scowled.

The Imperial flagship was displayed on it. It was far away in space; it looked quiet.

As a vulture which spies from afar on its prey.

* * *

The man was stocky, but not fat; he looked strong and he wore the same weird clothes as Tucker. The same… A vision suddenly came to T'Pol, even through the fog in her mind with regard to that day. She had seen those clothes on the people who had fought against the Humans in the Arena of Death.

She hadn't seen their faces; they were covered and of course she had been near death at that time.

Now, as the man approached her bed, she was able to see his visage.

His expression was stern and penetrating; his mouth was large and volitional; his nose was sharp and aquiline; his eyes were dark and piercing.

His hair was dusky and, although not identical, was combed in a similar fashion to hers.

His eyebrows were arched and, although surmounted by bilateral ridges on his forehead; they were like hers.

The tips of his ears were pointed.

Just like hers.

* * *

The energy level indicators had reached the top. Then, all of a sudden they went down, all together. The air seemed to quaver.

Then, a blinding light enlightened the screen and the whole room.

Everyone, including the Empress, tried to shield their eyes, screening them with their hands.

She felt Travis' hand grasping her shoulder, but she didn't mind that he had made a public and inappropriate manifestation of familiarity.

The moment was too important; it absorbed all of her attention.

Now she would see if her engineers had been able to emulate the one she had lost; if they had been capable of turning the sketches found in T'Pol's possession into reality; along with something written in Tucker's hand; regarding an unknown and terrifying weapon; connected to a species, the Xindi, against whom Humans had fought in another Universe; something that incredible man had been able to redesign in a scaled-down fashion so that it could be assembled on a spaceship, all that from the short time he had been able to examine the _Defiant_'s database.

Really, regardless of his insane liaison with that Vulcan whore, his was a serious loss. - The Empress couldn't suppress a smile, imperceptibly, even in that juncture. - _For many reasons._

Then, any other thought became unworthy of the Empress' attention. It was happening.

The screen turned completely black; then a dazzling blade of light crossed it; the viewing sensors followed the glaring shining slipstream in its breakneck ride, while it stretched out through space.

Down, down.

Until it reached the city.

* * *

The man walked swiftly towards the bed.

Towards her.

T'Pol was looking at him, with keen attention. She had never seen an alien like him before.

He was similar to her; but also different.

A subtle uneasiness spread inside her.

The man stopped in front of her bed, next to Tucker, and gave him a nod as a greeting while totally ignoring the Doctor.

He addressed her, speaking in a loud voice, with sure assertiveness, as he looked steadily at her. "Glad to see you are finally awake, Vulcan. It was about time. General Tucker was getting impatient."

The discomfort grew within T'Pol; she felt something which could be called fear.

Almost inadvertently she pulled the blanket up to her chin to use as a shield.

With a sudden motion, Tucker moved to put himself between her and the man, hiding him from her sight, and acting as a barrier between her and the Alien.

And T'Pol felt glad of that.

Then Tucker spoke to the alien, curtly, almost harshly, while the Doctor withdrew to stand against the wall so that he could remain aloof, as if he wished to hide his presence.

"What do you want, Valdore?"

The man stared at him with a rough expression, for a brief instant, and then he spoke in his turn to the Human, drily, and brusquely. "It's time, Tucker."

Immediately afterwards he pivoted on his heels and without another word and without waiting for a response he rapidly went towards the door and then exited the room.

T'Pol waited for Tucker's next move. What had they meant by those words? Who was that alien? And why did she feel… so?

Tucker stared at the door for a short time, with his back to her and then he turned slowly and looked seriously - pensively - at her.

He gazed at her for a long time, still with that expression on his face. Finally he shook himself. He laughed out loud, not cheerfully but forcedly.

And T'Pol did not feel glad about that.

She opened her lips to speak, but Tucker stopped her with his hand.

Placed on her mouth.

But not brusquely, rudely or harshly.

Then he pulled back his hand and smiled.

But not sarcastically, not ironically or sardonically.

He simply smiled to her.

Again, that sensation. That feeling, inside her.

He spoke to her.

But not gruffly, not boorishly or tauntingly.

"I must go. But I'll be back soon."

The sensation continued to grow inside her.

"Remember, Baby, explanations can wait."

The sensation was growing more and more.

He smiled again; a smile... that was gently teasing. As was the tone of his words.

"And do not forget; you said you would obey me, and I order..."

He became serious, he seemed ill at ease, he seemed to endeavour to say what he wanted to tell her.

He became serious; he seemed ill at ease, like if he found it difficult to say what he wanted to tell her.

Eventually he found his voice.

"...I order you to recover. Well and soon."

The sensation had become almost oppressive, and T'Pol could only nod; she was unable to speak.

Tucker nodded in reply; he was also unable to speak. It was evident that he was uneasy, awkward.

He nodded again and made as if to turn away and leave her, but suddenly he stopped and looked strangely at her.

T'Pol waited to see what he wanted to do.

He spoke; in a very low voice. "T'Pol…"

T'Pol was gazing at his tense face, as she lay in her bed, under the warmth of her blanket and under the unknown sweetness from that mysteriously delightful sensation.

"T'Pol…"

T'Pol nodded once more, to invite him to finish his phrase.

And at last, he did, "T'Pol, promise it."

T'Pol looked at Tucker with a puzzled expression on her face. She talked softly and her voice sounded strange to her ears. She… called him by his name. "What, Tucker?"

Tucker appeared to be startled; he then recovered enough to say, loud and clear, "That you'll obey me."

T'Pol couldn't find the words. All she could do was to stare intently at Tucker and then nod once again.

He went on looking her, his face now stern; tough. He spoke again in a hard voice. "Say it."

T'Pol renewed her look of confusion, and when she asked the question, she used the same words as before, "What, Tucker?"

Tucker's face seemed threatening, as he responded, although she could also tell as much by the tone of his voice which was anything but menacing, "say '_I promise'_."

T'Pol opened her eyes wide. What was happening to Tucker? What was happening to her?

Why, how was it possible that she could bring herself to respond - softly! - "I promise."?

Tucker said nothing; he stood motionless and serious in front of her, the blue of his eyes hardly perceptible under his frowning eyebrows and his deforming scar.

He nodded, again; then, again.

He recoiled backwards. Then he halted. Nodded, then recoiled back again, then halted. He spoke again: "Very... well." Then he smiled; a broad smile. Then he became serious once more. And finally he smiled again; slightly. Before at last he turned round and headed briskly for the door.

Suddenly he stopped in front of Phlox, and looked at him. The Doctor jumped, unready for Tucker's abrupt action.

Tucker burst out with a short laugh. "See that her promise isn't vain, okay Doc?"

"Su... sure, General, this is for certain."

Tucker nodded and then turned round to face toward T'Pol. He gazed quietly at her.

Of sudden T'Pol felt the weight of her tired body, of her exhausted mind.

She felt the imperious necessity to rest, to sleep

That was the problem, yes, it was. Now she understood. There was no need to be a Doctor to comprehend it. Her body, her mind, her whole essence had been worn out to the extreme, so it was not strange if she was feeling so; was so odd. But now she would recover, and would become herself again.

And Tucker...

T'Pol realized that she was using his name in her thoughts also. Oh, but sure. Her mind, even in extremis, was always logical, even now, even unconsciously. What rank did he hold now? General? Of what, of whom? So...Tucker, yes, simply his name. And he - he too - would become once more the one he had been for her... before.

Yes. Sure.

But…but, nevertheless, was all that enough to explain why it seemed to her that all of her accumulated tension had slipped away, easily, along her shoulders, just by looking at Tucker's face? And why did she have the neat perception that, who knows why, she would sleep quietly, this time? Without having any nightmares.

_And why…why had she felt so... so unhappy that he was going away? Why did she have to say in a faint voice... "_Come back…soon_." And then have to add... "_Be careful_."_

Tucker blinked at her words; then reacted, forcefully, regaining his world's solidity; knowing where he was and his own way. He launched a last glance at her, accompanied by another grin.

At last, he turned away from her and walked out of the door.

He disappeared from T'Pol's sight.

**

* * *

**

End of chapter three.

_**Mh... but where the hell is **__**"**__**General Tucker**__**" going?**_

**TBC**


	4. Chapter 4 Through the Eyes of Women

**The ****Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

_**Chapter four – **__**Through the Eyes of Women**_

* * *

My dearest friends, readers who wanted to read this story; I hope you are still willing to read what is yet in store. The story is unfolding, some explanations begin to be displayed. But, forgive me, we are still at the start.

You must understand: we are speaking of the Destiny of the Human Empire.

And you, my dearest _**Opalsmith**_, my amiable friend, who once again wanted to help me in my fatigue... to you my greatest thanks; hoping you will be willing to guide me again.

**

* * *

**

Through the Eyes of Women

There had been no time to analyze the flare which inflamed the screen; to ascertain what it was.

Sudden and deadly, like glowing lightning which ignited the sky with a dazzling red that hurt the eyes, a fire of havoc swooped down on the city.

Thunderstruck and struck dumb, they all saw the gleaming beam of light striking the energy bubble that encircled the town, sinking into it like a knife into butter.

It seemed to hurl itself, as if it were a fire demon, onto the splendid palaces, which trembled under its potency. The high walls started to fissure and split, as they were cut by the blazing blade, and then, with a heartbreaking slowness, they began to fall apart along the trail of destruction that the infernal death ray was following; unstoppable.

The horror-stricken eyes of Harrad-Sar and of his fellows watched the beam of havoc, cleaving the domes, the towers, and the minarets with surgical precision.

The unreal silence of the video broadcast revealed the mortal knife of energy as it ran across the city, with boulders springing upward in to the air, until the debris and dark clouds of dust covered everything, obscuring the screen.

Then a tremor running across the ground awakened them from their motionless bewilderment. The floor began to shake, slowly at first, then more and more strongly and more and more swiftly. The destruction made it impossible for them to remain on their feet, as the floor became corrugated with cliffy folds and contemporaneously broken with steep hollows.

A terrible din had irrupted and destroyed the silence.

Mingling with the deafening noise of the walls that were falling, the floors which were subsiding, the ceilings which were collapsing, the control panels which were exploding, the lights and screens which were melting in cascades of crackling sparks, it reached the isolated command room tearing through its walls, entering from the outside; from the streets that were being ripped apart and were filling with terrified people who thronged at doorways, who threw themselves from windows, who were desperately running, aimlessly seeking an escape from death as they dashed out of houses falling down on their heads. Only to find death, outside, under the palaces crumbling away from them as they were crushed by the mortal embrace of the hysterical crowd crammed in the streets that were illuminated by the light from blazes flaming up everywhere, piercing the reddish darkness that had taken the place of sunlight; as the lugubrious howl of the alarm sirens resonated around them.

Then, silence returned, bit by bit. A chilly, empty and scary silence which was only interrupted from time to time by the deep rumbling of explosions; by the noise of pieces of buildings rolling and falling; by the lonely sob of some obdurately active sirens, stubbornly sticking to do their useless job.

And the silence and the cold and the dark also swallowed up Harrad-Sar.

* * *

Excellent.

The Empress' eyes stroked the images scrolling on the screen with satisfaction, while the people on the bridge gave free vent to their exultation and Mayweather could not help but tighten his grip on her shoulder.

At her command, the dazzling tongue of destructive energy had ceased to exist in a split-second, and was swiftly gulped back into the womb of her ship.

The screen displayed the town of the rebels again, and what the Empress was able to see was very satisfactory indeed. It had been necessary to wait a little of time because the dust avalanches had to dissolve and all the debris come to rest on the ground but at last what they had been able to observe demonstrated that the deployment of the new and unique weapon had paid off.

Most of the buildings were half-destroyed, but not all of them, and the streets appeared torn, but not completely unusable. Among the fires it was possible to see people who were trying to understand what had happened; they were looking around in dismay and confusion but on the whole, the city was still standing. The soldiers had pulled themselves together and were desperately trying to bring order back, even while the huddle standing aghast impeded them and even though they were without officers to organize them, while the rescue teams in their vehicles were already - but chaotically - attempting to do their job.

Ultimately, the weapon had done what was required of it; bombs and photon torpedoes would have pulverized the town. Instead the surgical precision of the energy blade had badly wounded it without inflicting the finality of death.

Above all, the energy bubble that had surrounded the city; the one that had been the result of the reunited efforts of keener minds among the rebel scientists and which had promised to be a very hard barrier to shatter was no longer detectable, either visually or on the sensors. In reality, no source of energy was detectable, and the combatants were decapitated because their centre of operations, the command palace, was devastated and afire.

The city was substantially defenceless. And ready.

It was ready to be attacked by ground forces. It was ready to be conquered.

The Imperial Army would run rampant through it thanks to the collapse of the energy bubble. It would be able to do that without meeting any fierce and organized opposition. The lack of energy sources was an evident sign that there was no possibility that its defenders could use any of their powerful weapons to counter the advance of the troops of General Hayes.

The Empress smiled slightly with satisfaction. It was to be the final showdown: those who had dared defy her and the Human Empire would find death on the swords of her pitiless soldiers, acting under the control of her Army Chieftain. So, this was the way the rebellion would be choked off; that would be the end, the final act in the lives of the last rebels. That would be the way the enemies of the Empire would remember this great victory. That would be the imperishable admonishment she could hold against any other potential rebellions which might again snake through the Empire; through _**her**_ Empire.

And, even more then that, any idea of revolution would be cut off at the roots and might never again be able to flourish because of the memory that people would hold of the spectacle of survivors facing their end at the claws of the brothers of those savage Humanoids who had failed to bring down their first prey.

The sudden remembrance of the one who had become her fixed idea, of a woman who she couldn't help but feel was now her archenemy, surfaced in her mind, after she had almost managed to forget that Vulcan bitch while engrossed in observing the course of recent events.

The Empress visibly frowned. No, it was not yet her showdown. The day of reckoning would be the one in which she would have that whore in her hands. Then she would make her pay not only for what she had done, but also for the blow that she, the Empress, had had to suffer because of her.

And if she, and whoever had saved her, were watching what was happening at this moment and what was about to happen – it was a idea that the Empress eagerly wished - they would be become aware that there was no escape; that she, Hoshi Sato the Great, couldn't be stopped; that no momentary standstill could deter her from her purpose; that the final victory would be hers.

And that Vulcan tart would regret that she had not to found her death the first time in the manner the Empress had devised.

So, the Monarch who had become the new and most pitiless face of the Human Empire, the one that an even more brutal Fate had given the ultimate power to; the woman from whom, as Human History will teach, had brought into the full light of day the worst side of acquired power, the grim darkness that the human soul is capable of harbouring inside and all the more so in a Universe that knew only obscurity, where the light of love seemed to be nothing else than a never expressed and hopeless desire, a feeble sigh too quiet to be heard…this Monarch stood up, to make real what her by now one-track mind, intoxicated by her power, thought should be done.

The voices, the noises, the comments and an undertone of relaxed laughter ceased abruptly. The Empress' gigolo placed himself at her side, though a little to her rear, out of respect, underlining the poignancy of the moment.

The Empress looked sternly around. She was about to write the rebellion's final scene and from there her domination could only grow greater. Yes, there would not be limits to her puissance. Not even... not even the other Universe would be safe. She should think about finding a way it could be reached, so that that ridiculous Federation might be erased.

By _**her own**_ Empire.

Her eyes, - the eyes of a woman, which were able to shine in the way that only women's eyes could; unbelievably sweet if needed and fiercer than anyone could imagine if required - the eyes that were now the eyes of a woman of fate, were gleaming with the joy of her unlimited power.

She raised her arm and spoke in an unflinching and demanding tone.

"General Hayes!"

"Your Majesty?"

"To you."

* * *

Harrad-Sar made an effort to open his eyes. A great and ponderous weight burdened his chest, making it hard and painful for him to breathe. His brain was befuddled; he was incapable of understanding where he was, even to remember who he was.

"Wake up!"

A voice struck him, sharp and pressing.

He attempted to understand what the person speaking to him was saying.

"Wake up. Now!"

Again, someone was trying to force him to emerge from his state of stupor.

Harrad-Sar fought hard to chase away the fog that oppressed his mind. He breathed deeply and immediately had to cough, as he convulsed, increasing the pain he felt all over his body; though that pushed away the fog, so that he could open his eyes and endeavour to see who was calling him. And in this way, he finally came back to reality.

There was a face peering down at him; uncomfortably close. He batted his eyelids, trying to make the vision clearer.

It was that Vulcan man. The one called Arev.

* * *

Hayes listened to the command of the Empress with unconcealed enjoyment.

Finally!

A stiff smile appeared on his face; taut and hard, as were most of the rare smiles he displayed.

It was time. His troops were free to assail the town. His eyes scrutinized the screens and the sensors in his command cockpit. The weapon had definitely done a good job; now it would be easy to carry out their mission. Hayes smiled again only this time in an e_asy and pleasant _manner.

He decided to proceed with his Plan B. There was no need to use the war vehicles to smash the city's defences; they just had to stay there, surrounding the town to block any fugitives trying to find a way to escape.

He would use the Elite Guard, the corps made up of his most faithful men; the soldiers that were the backbone of the assault troops. And he would lead them personally. The General smiled again. Yes, he was the only one to command the job of combing the town for survivors.

The purpose was to crush any possibility of resistance, by fighting the residual rebellious forces, street to street, house to house. They had to be annihilated by him and his troops, while also holding the city without further destruction. In this way he would demonstrate the strength of the Empire. He and his men would mop up the town, killing anyone they picked up who showed less than a supine obedience, until there was nobody left alive able to withstand; until all of the leaders had been killed, if by some chance any of them still walked in this world.

Gloating with evil enjoyment, the General could not resist smiling one more time.

Well, maybe not only those who had shown submissiveness would be left alive; regardless of the behaviour they might display, his men would really appreciate some well shaped women as war booty. It would be a just reward for their hard work.

The General barked his command into the communication device.

"Plan B! Now! Men of the Imperial Guard make ready to proceed at my order!"

An evil smile did not leave his face while he observed with satisfaction the sure efficiency with which his troops rapidly executed his order; the way in which the war vehicles swiftly reached their correct positions.

He put on his combat helmet and then ordered that the exit hatches be opened.

He shouted loudly into the microphone. "Get down everyone! Follow me!"

Immediately afterwards, he jumped down through the hatch to the ground landing just beside his command vehicle.

He straightened and looked around at his men. They were jumping down from their vehicles and quickly lining up in rows, deploying themselves in an attack formation. In less than no time, they were all standing in an array, waiting for his next command.

A multitude of disciplined combatants, all Humans; perfectly equipped, perfectly armed, and perfectly trained. And absolutely flinty; educated to be ruthless and heartless.

With rapid strides, the General reached the head of the formation. He stared at his men for a short time before turning around, to look toward the city.

The scintillating domes were still there but they were broken and fumigant with dense spirals of smoke that rose up high into the sky, the blue of which was lost behind the intense glare of the many blazing buildings.

There would be death in there; the General could sniff it in the air. Yet there was also life and despair. And despair would push people to fight to the death so as not to suffer alive in the hands of the winners. That fate would be worse than death.

His eyes sparkled behind the helmet's visor.

A fate worse than death? For the men, maybe, and for children; but for the women... perhaps not such a terrible end. Or - the twinkle in his eyes became more marked - perhaps yes?

General Hayes raised his arm; his stentorian order accompanied by this gesture of command.

"Forward march!"

His feet hit the ground as if they were efficient pistons, and his men followed suit. The soil trembled under the rhythmic and gradually quickening beat of the army as they marched.

In a jiff, they would reach the town and spread through its devastated streets, bringing more terror and despair to it, as if the destructive beam hadn't been enough.

And the survivors would become acquainted with slavery.

And the women...

General Hayes accelerated the pace.

He hoped that there were Vulcan women among those who had been spared by the weapon. The experiences he had had with those Vulcan females who had the _good_ _fortune_ to fall into his hands had been…remarkable. Maybe they had been a little recalcitrant at first but once their defences were smashed...

And he knew very well how to smash their defences, along with some help from that Andorian torture device which had proved so useful against Vulcans, males… and females. Those women, who had the _luck_ to taste that machine as well as Hayes' loving attentions, had become willing to do whatever he wanted; _an infinity of very agreeable things (for him)_, in order not to face a repeat of those _not perfectly_ pleasant trials. And those acts had been, in Hayes' experience, what no woman of any other race was capable of performing. That was a matter of fact. Patently, the love for perfection was really inborn to Vulcans. - The General nearly had to chuckle to himself. - _In all cases and under all circumstances._

Suddenly – inexplicably - a tinge of envy stung his heart, which he was well able to understand…, together with…he didn't know…a…a sort of unknown and aching discontent.

How… how even more enjoyable would a nice Vulcan female be, if she did _those things_ by her own free will? Without being forced? Except by the natural force of mutual attraction? Just as… – and there could be no other reason – that Vulcan woman, T'Pol, had been pushed into the arms of the now dead Chief Engineer?

General Hayes could not help but form a pensive and an unusual half-smile of uncertainty.

That Tucker... he had been like all of them; arrogant, self-centred, trusting only force. But he had looked so different, sometimes. When Hayes had been able to observe the Chief Engineer when he thought nobody was watching him... he had looked so strange... wistful, almost sombre, sorrowful and thoughtful... foreign in someway. With that scar that had made his features, which had once been agreeable, loathsome.

Why had the Vulcan, T'Pol, given herself to him? What had she seen in him that had made her desire to bind herself to him, a disfigured man? And to complete the measure; a Human, a member of a race that she plainly hated, judging from what she had done.

He had nothing to offer her in exchange.

Or, maybe, he did?

All of a sudden, Hayes remembered how Amanda Cole had looked. He had had her, many times, but he had never cared for her. Yet he had seen the sadness in her eyes, every time he had other females. He had laughed at her, and savoured his pride, the pride of being desired, just to make Amanda suffer, as a man has the right to do with any female. That was the law of the strongest, the law of the Empire, and of the Universe. It was _His law_. But then, why, now, when he was about to crown his efforts, when he would have glory, money, and weeping females begging at his feet... why was he thinking of her?

_Of the sadness in her eyes?_

What were these weird thoughts that had affected him at the very moment, they were about to reach the city?

Hayes closed his mind, purposely and firmly.

_Enough, now_.

He speeded up even more, and his soldiers followed his pace without question.

_Enough. _

He immersed himself in the intoxicating flavour of the adrenalin stream running rampant throughout the whole of his body.

It was time to kill, and nothing else could be allowed to get in his way.

But – and he didn't understand why - his mind was still twirling around thoughts of Tucker, and he couldn't stop himself. As if that man, Tucker, was a looming presence, even though he was dead. These thoughts occupied his mind just as he and the Empire were about to stop the rebellion once and for all.

_Why?_

Finally Hayes was forced to focus on his task. They were entering the town, and in spite of the fact that no real resistance was expected, they still needed to be prudent and totally mindful.

In unison with his soldiers, he levelled his weapon.

But – unwanted - a disturbing shadow remained in his mind. It was the persistent thought that Tucker was different; special. Yes, Hayes had to admit that was it. He was very special, in some way.

_What had T'Pol's eyes seen in him that he - Hayes - lacked? _

_And…why had he seen the large and sad eyes of Amanda looking at him? They were so terribly sad; as if they were trying to tell him something he would never be able to understand._

Then, all his weird musings faded away in an instant: his rifle vomited his wrath against someone who had suddenly appeared in front of him. He fired without caring if it was a man, or a woman, or what their age was, or if he or she had intended to attack or beseech for his pity.

* * *

Phlox was heartened when at last he could close the door behind Tucker - the General had finally gone away. At least something was going well, finally, after the mess his life had become when he had given into the tempting requests of Soval and T'Pol. Tempting - Phlox sighed – those opportunities had turned out to be damn dangerous in reality. His thoughts caused Phlox to laugh secretly to himself. His life? A _mess_? That word didn't give justice to what his life had become. He didn't even know how it was possible he was still alive; how he had escaped Human vengeance. The last thing he remembered was being knocked out by Tucker. He had lost consciousness and then when he had woken up he found himself in a cell.

Phlox remembered well his first thoughts when he had regained consciousness in that brig: surely Tucker had informed someone about what he had tried to do, and he had been dragged to prison to wait for a _gentle_ interrogation, and then, obviously, execution. But, when he had been able to think coherently, he had seen that it wasn't a prison he could recognize. It wasn't built like the brig in a Human ship, even if this ship was from another Universe or even from the future of another Universe.

It was different; alien.

He had laboriously stood up, attempting to control his astonishment and the fear that he felt deep down.

He had examined the bare walls of the brig, noting anything which could be a surveillance device; the technology was completely different from anything else he had known. They were marked with symbols that did not belong to any Human alphabets or even any other alphabet he had ever seen.

He had fingered the door, a true and solid door, not like the barrier of metal bars he had seen on Human ships.

Finally, he had done the only thing he could do: he had shouted out loud and hoped he was not making a mistake. "_Who_ are you? _Where_ am I? _Why _am I here? _What_ do you want from me?"

He had heard his own voice resound and be deadened by the thick walls that enclosed the narrow room, which only increased the scary estrangement that he felt.

Nobody had responded; not one movement, not a single noise.

He had raised his voice once more; a thrill of true fear in his tone, "Answer me, damn it!"

But there hadn't been a response. And that was how it continued from then on.

He had yelled lots of times, hammered on the door and the walls with his fists, cussed and beseeched; but there had been no answer, not once.

He had been so desperate and fearful that he started to believe that he would finish his days in that unknown and solitary cell, without seeing or hearing anyone. He would not ever know why and how he was there and who had imprisoned him. He did not know what he should do as he consumed his never-ending time between meals, which were automatically served by invisible devices while his physiological needs continued to be ignored by his jailors.

And, as an unknown and unexpected pain had gnawed at him, a thought began to form in his mind: this could be a punishment for his flagitious life; a punishment for his disloyalty toward the Empire.

Then, suddenly, on an otherwise unremarkable day, the door of the brig had opened and two tall and brawny guards appeared, their faces covered and wearing strange uniforms that seemed to be a type of leather armour. Without speaking, they had made their meaning plain – he was commanded to exit the cell. They then silently led him – Phlox not daring to say anything, dungy, unshaven and smelly; hopeful and fearful at the same time - along a corridor, until they reached a room where there were people - _people who were not hiding their faces... their different faces.., _and the strange aliens were talking to a person with blond hair, who had his back to Phlox.

While had he observed - his mind in a daze - the visages of the people standing in the room, one of his guards said in a loud voice.

"General Tucker."

And, before he had managed to fully take in the importance of what had been said, the man turned towards him and he had found himself face to face with the ex-Chief Engineer of Enterprise, and of Defiant.

That sardonic grin that was very characteristic of the man was painted on his face; he wore a weird and scary barbaric uniform which was the same in all respects to those worn by the guards and all the other people in the room. His scar looked subtly threatening in the dark room; a room which seemed like a sort of foreign sickbay. The Commander, surrounded by those silent and visibly unfriendly people - _**who looked Vulcans, but were not Vulcans**_ – had all sarcastically greeted him, openly laughing at his evident bewilderment.

"A warn welcome to you, Doctor."

Phlox had been lost for words. Tucker grinned and then enquired:

"I hope your present aspect doesn't mean you won't be able to do your job."

Then he had become serious, speaking in a hard voice, while staring intensely at him.

"Your services are needed, Phlox."

Tucker had not even given him time to recover, to try to understand or even breathe. He had grasped him by his arm and dragged him toward a bed by the far wall of the room, situated beyond the group, all of whom had to stand aside to allow them to approach it.

Without speaking, the Commander had pointed towards the bed.

Phlox could not remember that moment without feeling a shiver run through his spine.

On the bed, he had seen T'Pol.

Or more accurately what had remained of T'Pol.

Although he was a sadistic and heartless doctor, he still shuddered in horror at the sight of her.

The splendid and vital woman that he had known was lying unconscious on the bed; clumps of her hair had been ripped from her head and she was covered in green blood - her blood. Her face looked swollen and yet also emaciated; she was unrecognizable. Blood and horrible bruises coated her nude shoulders and gaunt arms peeping out from the blanket, which mercifully hid her body, and which was also drenched with green blood.

Phlox had seen that she was still breathing; however it was just like someone about to give up the ghost.

Tucker's taut voice had further shaken him. "She must live, Doc. And recover well and completely."

Phlox had turned toward him, his mouth open to speak. But Tucker had cut him off and something in the General's expression had told him that it was better that he say nothing and not ask any questions.

Tucker had stared at him and then limited himself to a brief terse sentence, "You heard me, Phlox."

Yes, Phlox had heard Tucker and understood what he wanted from him. He repressed his astonishment, ignoring all that surrounded him as he restrained himself from asking all the questions which crowded his brain. He had felt that Tucker, the man who stood in front of him... was a Tucker that it was best not to contradict.

That man had watched him with a strained look on his face. He had then spoken bluntly to him.

"The brig you have been released from should have been your destiny, Doctor, and I would have liked to have kept you in it for eternity. But T'Pol needs your ability to heal."

Phlox remembered very well the Tucker's harsh face as he continued to speak.

"You will have all the time of the world to recover and to get cleaned up, Phlox. But before that you must cure – _**and help T'Pol to heal.**_"

Tucker had backed away and then pivoted on his heels, heading for the sickbay's exit. All the people had then exited the room while the General hung back, remaining near to the door, and looking back at him with bristly eyes. Although his look was less bristly than the tone with which he issued instructions to the Phlox.

"You will have all you need, Doctor. The means, help, instruments; any device you need, all that you require, Doctor. You have only to ask. But remember: she must be healed; her body and her mind. See that you don't discover that prison would have been a marvellous destiny, in comparison with what you will experience if you fail to meet my orders."

Tucker had lingered at the door, for a moment longer. He had spoken one last time.

"_**She. Must. Heal**_."

Then he was gone.

The Doctor returned his thoughts to the present and turned around, breathing deeply, while looking at the woman who was on the mend, with unrepressed relief.

_On the mend, thanks to heaven, on the mend! And soon she would be completely healed!_

He didn't even dare think what Tucker – or rather General Tucker, as he was now - would have done to him, if he had failed to deliver in this task.

He had worked hard, day and night, night and day, without interruption; he watched and made up his cures, not stopping his care even while snatching some food, not even while he was taking care of his own needs, even while he slept. Expectantly and timorously he spied on any tiny change, or any wished for progress he could detect in the comatose Vulcan. Using all his skilfulness and knowledge that, as Tucker had told him, were required in order to cure T'Pol, because he alone had the power to heal, unlike the people he and Tucker were among.

And Phlox found that very strange considering what he later understood them to be. Or maybe it was not all that strange, if considering all the time that had passed since the Vulcans and these people...

But, on the other hand, the inevitable interaction he had to have with them so that he could acquire what he needed to cure T'Pol made him aware that they were a race for whom healing the badly injured or sick was, in reality, the least of their concerns. The sickbay was a place where people were taken who could be easily treated in order to return to combat. Nothing else was considered important. And those who were weak and useless... well... they would were left to die.

They were like Humans - or even worse than Humans.

And like Humans, or even more than Humans, they despised Vulcans, despite what they and Vulcans were; despite the evidence of their common origin.

He would never have believed that such a threatening race, that seemed to prefer to spy on others from afar with unclear intentions, could have something connection to Vulcans, but it was so.

Their words, the broken conversations he had listened in on, as well as what Tucker had revealed, even if not spelt out fully, had made him aware about a lot of what was happening.

But he did not know everything.

Why were these people there? What did they want? How had Tucker come to be with them and why? How had he been able to gain their loyalty and help? And what had he given in exchange? How had he managed to be recognised as General Tucker, by these people? How had it been possible for him to elude his death, if what he had told T'Pol when she woke up was true? Namely, that he had escaped certain death, which evidently T'Pol had been persuaded, was true? And exactly how had he, Phlox, also managed to cheat death – which he could only guess at, based on what little Tucker had said. It was clear that Tucker had saved him; but how and why? Oh, but of course, he was there to cure T'Pol. But why had General Tucker wanted him to cure her, let alone save her - the Doctor had become aware of this – at risk to his own life?

_Why?_

Phlox thought of the scene he had just witnessed between the General and T'Pol. He thought about Tucker's behaviour, about his words.

Was it possible?

The Doctor was what he was; a son of that Universe, of the circumstances and the unresolved aggressiveness that were part of that Universe; and he, himself, was part of the natural and untamed violence that were integral to all living beings and that had brought all of them to where they were now. It was certain that he would never dissolve in tears because cute puppy was dying under his knife; but he had the knowledge, he knew, even as he had made his life choices, that there was another way; a different way of living. Maybe he found it difficult to understand such things; after all, all he really wanted was some well shaped, ready and willing concubines. However, he still could recognize those… those incomprehensible things, as far from his way of being and thinking as they might be.

But…Tucker?

A Human, a single member of the race that had pushed all of them to become what they were, to an extreme degree? Sure, he was different somehow, even a little special; that was commonly known. But... but this?

And... and T'Pol? Was it possible that she also… she also…?

The Doctor looked at the face of the Vulcan.

She was staring at the door, as if trying to see beyond it, to the man who had disappeared from her view.

And there was a strange expression on her face.

Something... dreamlike, Phlox thought.

She realized he was observing her, and started to speak. "Doctor..."

Phlox knew she wanted to him answer all the questions she had in her mind and, regardless of the fact he didn't have any response to give her, he promptly blocked her attempt. "No, T'Pol. Not now. You must rest, and recover."

He purposely watched her. "Remember what General Tucker said."

The Vulcan stopped immediately and watched Phlox intensely. Then her body visibly relaxed and she closed her eyes.

While surrendering to her need for sleep, she spoke in a low and perceptibly content voice.

"Yes. I must obey him."

In a daze, Phlox absorbed the image, the behaviour, and the words of a T'Pol who he didn't recognize. Sure, the terrific ordeal she had to bear could be a satisfactory explanation, and in some way, unscramble her unusual and… and illogical conduct.

But, really? Could it completely explain this change in her?

And…what about Tucker?

The Doctor thought about him and the not in a totally sympathetic but still plainly respectful way - Phlox could bet that their regard was forcibly achieved – that he was treated by their unpleasant and overawing hosts.

Was there really something different about Tucker? Or could there be something really special about him?

The Doctor observed the Vulcan woman who was placidly resting on the bed. He saw that following her interaction with Tucker she now had a peaceful expression on her visage. Then he thought of the task she had conceived and worked on; the idea of a revolt, at the very core of the new Empire's force. She had been the source and the engine for this conspiracy, capable of involving Soval and him to achieve her purpose, as well as many other women and men. Intelligence? Cleverness? Adroitness? Courage? Determination? Those words were not sufficient to describe her ability and bravery.

A bravery that had cost her very dear - Phlox had been told all about what had happened to her by Tucker, so that he would be better placed to cure her.

And Tucker, by means of what sort of circumstances – Accidental? Deliberately sought? - only the devil could know, and with some unknown skill, had saved her, regardless of what she had done. Regardless of the fact he was a Human, and a Human betrayed by her; twice betrayed, both as a member of the Empire and as a man. She had betrayed his male pride and his good faith; not by betraying him with another man, but by deceiving his loyalty and expectation based on the promises she made. She had broken her pledge to love him without conditions, she acted with a _hidden agenda_, with an ulterior motive, which is the worst thing that a woman can do to a man. Tucker had understood this, and his bitterness and disappointment had been so deep and too great for him to express - even in half words - the roughness of his disappointment, his sadness. Yes; in the light of what he had seen pass between Tucker and T'Pol, Phlox could affirm that that term - sadness - was fitting.

And what other feeling, if not something even deeper – _Different, Special_ - could the man have, who not only was determined to save T'Pol, at any cost, but also willing to rescue him, Phlox, to heal her? Despite the patent contempt, Tucker felt for him, the fact he still breathed was evidence that he had been saved by a man who had made it unequivocally clear that he had been given a task that should absolutely be accomplished.

_Eh,__ he was a very special Human man. _

_Definitely._

But...

In the silence that descended in the room, the Doctor went on mulling over all that had happened and, not least, on the incredible force, the indomitable courage T'Pol had displayed in her desperate fight, as he had witnessed in the recording Tucker had given him, at his request, in order to know the exact nature of her physical and mental wounds. But he was also impressed by the equally amazing way in which she entrusted herself to Tucker, now, in spite of everything. Yes, in spite of everything.

_How…__ how much had it cost T'Pol to deceive Tucker? Was it possible that even unconsciously she had to bend his logic for doing such a thing? Because… because… in reality…she…_

_**If**__** indeed, it was possible? Damnit, how it was!**_ Phlox remembered the look he had seen in T'Pol's eyes, when she had watched Tucker. And now that he thought on it, he had seen that look a few times, even during their past relationship.

_The eyes of T'Pol…_

_The eyes of a woman..._

_Could the eyes of a woman reveal what the woman does not even know about herself?_

_And w__hat could they do to a man, the eyes of a woman?_

_Could they change him?_

_Could they have changed the destiny of this man? And, together with his, her destiny too, maybe without either of them ever realizing this fact?_

The Doctor, with an unusual pensiveness, looked around, musing about where he was, about all things that had happened, about the road that destiny set them all on; what the future held for T'Pol, for Tucker, for him and for everyone.

_Could the hidden and unfathomable strength unveiled in T'Pol's eyes change the destiny of the Empire? _

Oh sure, Tucker was undeniably a very special Human man.

But what part would _a very special Vulcan female_ play?

* * *

"Wake up! Come on, you can't abandon us!"

Harrad-Sar tried to clear his mind, to understand...

"Wake up, man. You're needed."

Harrad-Sar shook his head, fighting against confusion and pain. Laboriously, he started to emerge from the darkness.

"I said..."

"Yes! Yes."

Harrad-Sar had found his voice.

"Yes, I'm... I'm awake."

He weakly grasped at the hand that was clamped painfully tight around his shoulder and shaking it to bring him back to the living.

He realized he was lying supine on the floor and the Vulcan, was on his knees beside his body, looking down at him.

His brain was functioning again and he now remembered what had happened. He turned his head to view the destruction that surrounded them. The walls were broken and hanging at crazy angles over the rubble on the floor, there were pockets of fire, the screens were smashed and the ceiling, cloven and crumbling down on their heads.

And the bodies of his companions were on the ground, twisted and torn, lying in the positions in which they had fallen. They were motionless, without life.

Harrad-Sar's eyes returned to the face of the Vulcan and noticed at last that it was covered in green blood. He became aware that the Vulcan's breathing was harsh and broken and that he was gazing at him with a dull and yet strangely penetrating look.

Abruptly the Vulcan's hands snapped to Harrad-Sar's face, while his eyes seemed suddenly to spark with a vivid and strange light.

An unknown and disquieting sensation spread through Harrad-Sar's mind; even in his obfuscation, in the distressing staleness he felt, his hands were able to burst forth and seize those of the Vulcan, to try to detach them from his face.

For an undeterminable time they fought each other as the Vulcan maintained his grip, their eyes fixed on each other. Then, all of a sudden, the Vulcan yielded. He seemed to curl up on himself, and then he gave out a long breath and closed his eyes, collapsing on the Orion man.

Harrad-Sar felt ill at ease with an odd and uncanny feeling inside him. As the Vulcan's body slumped onto him, he was so shocked that his mind cleared and suddenly he was fully aware as his strength and vigour returned. He grasped the Vulcan by his shoulders and tossed him to the side, disentangling his own body from his. He snapped up to his feet and turned swiftly, as if fearing something he couldn't comprehend, and then he looked down at the Vulcan lying on the floor.

He bent down, as if searching for something - he didn't understand what - and the Vulcan, whose eyes were closed and who had appeared to be inert, suddenly roused himself. His eyes shot wide open, and he grabbed Harrad-Sar by his wrists, with a force that had he not felt it, Harrad-Sar would not have believed possible of a man loosing the breath of life.

The dying Vulcan pulled Harrad-Sar down closer to him and, with visible pain and effort, desperately tried to do what would surely be the last thing he would ever do, as he spat out both broken words and green-black blood.

"Take care… take care... of... of..."

His eyes widened even more, a river of blood gushed from his mouth, then he stiffened, and his spine arched as he clenched spasmodically Harrad-Sar's wrists and his heels knocked against the floor.

Then he went limp, his grasp on Harrad-Sar loosened even though it was still strong and he fell, landing on his back. There he finally remained, motionless, his chest immovable, his hands still weakly but stiffly holding onto the Orion's wrists. His eyes were wide open; in the nothing.

Harrad-Sar stayed still for a moment, staring down at the petrified eyes of the Vulcan. His wrists remained clenched by rigid hands; as if the dead man was attempting to transmit a message to him through the enduring grip, after death had prevented him from making his meaning plain.

The Orion was unable to decipher what had happened to his mind, as an obscure feeling compelled him, after he had freed his wrists from the Vulcan's cold grasp, to lower his hand and delicately close the Vulcan's eyelids, allowing him at last to abandon the world that he was now incapable of seeing.

But what _**had**_ happened to him?

What was happening to him?

Why was he acting like this? Never...NEVER! NEVER! His stony heart, stonier than the rough Universe into which he had been born, had never had a surge of compassion, of comprehension, for anyone. And now he was being sympathetic toward a dead Vulcan!

A Vulcan!

A VULCAN!

They – the Vulcans - had contacted Humans! They had helped the Humans become what they were now! Regardless of the fact that Vulcans had been unaware of what would happen when they had first met Humans, they – THEY! THEY! - had been the ones who, willy-nilly, had given Humans the instruments with which to seize power! The slavery suffered by the Vulcans under the Human heel was not enough payment in comparison to what they deserved for their reckless imprudence.

And that was not all; Vulcans had become the complaisant slaves of the Humans. They served on Human ships, holding positions of responsibility, even if always under the iron control of Human Commanders. In that way they had allowed Humans to increase their power, explaining away their own behaviour in the name of Logic because according to them, there was no logic in denying the strength of Humans.

Logic, LOGIC! To the hell with Vulcan logic, and to the hell with Vulcans, too!

Harrad-Sar looked down at the dead Vulcan with repressed rage.

Sure. The Vulcans: and their faults.

Nevertheless...Harrad-Sar tried to make sense of his warring thoughts, which were so incessant and noisy he couldn't properly perceive that he was in immediate danger – and really should leave without delay. Nevertheless, he thought, that Vulcan female, that T'Pol, had attempted to rebel against Humans, and had paid a great cost for her unwary boldness. She had most likely, also repressed her attraction to that Human, that Charles Tucker, who had played such an important part in the improvement of Human engineering and who people murmured might have been her saviour, although it was well known that he no longer walked in this world.

And this man, this Vulcan, Arev... he was... he had been... the leader of a Vulcan sect, the Syrrannites, a sect disfavoured by Vulcan society, claimed by its to be different; they were trying to find something that Vulcans had lost and that its members asserted might be their salvation from Humans and... - Harrad-Sar remembered very well the exact words Arev had used when he asked if his group could join the rebels - _**for the Humans.**_

Much laugher, mockery and fierce diffidence had welcomed Arev's statement; Vulcans weren't popular among the races of the Quadrant and even less among the rebels; who were unable to forget or forgive what they had done and what they were. But he - Harrad-Sar - had silenced everyone. The rebels needed all the help they could get and even if the Syrrannites were Vulcans, they had to be made welcome, if they were able to demonstrate their good faith, their fidelity to the Rebellion's banner and their will for combat without limit.

And that was how they had been allowed to join the rebellion and Harrad-Sar had not regretted his decision. He had to admit that many times he had breathed a sigh of relief while observing the conduct of the Syrrannites during the war. Not just because he had been the one who allowed them to join the uprising, but also... well... there had been a concealed reason – in some way hidden from him – for his choice. The eyes of that Vulcan, of Arev, had spoken to him of something that he felt he hadn't known before but which in some obscure way, he had always known.

Harrad-Sar straightened up and then pensively looked down at the closed eyelids that hid the dead eyes of the Vulcan.

_His eyes…_

But much more than the eyes of Arev - Harrad-Sar relived the scene when Arev and some of his followers had first presented themselves to him - much, much more than their leader, other eyes had caught his attention; strongly enough to seem to pierce him.

_Pierced; yes._

The eyes had belonged to the young Vulcan female who stood at Arev's side, T'Pau. Harrad-Sar knew that Vulcans could live a very long life so it was hard, not to say almost impossible, to establish the correct age of a Vulcan man let alone a Vulcan female. However he was sure he hadn't deceived himself and T'Pau was very, very young. She could almost have been the daughter he had never had. And in her eyes he had glimpsed a secret he had never told anyone; not even his mistress, Navaar. For within those eyes lived a flame, and also a pure innocence that was capable of smoothing away the steepest asperities of his calloused heart.

It had been a strange, strange impression to get from that female, to be sure. And it led to an idea which came to him, bizarre and unexpected, from deep in his mind.

_Could there __also be something in the eyes of that T'Pol, able to push a Human man, like that Tucker, which would smooth his harsh and prickly Human heart?_

_Might the eyes of a woman change a man?_

_And have the force to change their destiny?_

Harrad-Sar suddenly stopped his odd cogitation.

There was something...

He felt observed.

He abruptly turned around.

On the threshold of what had been a door, stood that young Vulcan woman, T'Pau.

Without moving, she silently watched him with those large eyes of hers.

Those eyes; shining and so wide open, as if they could not accept what they were seeing.

Those eyes; so sad.

And there was fear there as well. Even though they were the eyes of a Vulcan woman, they looked scared, like they had just seen hell.

They were the eyes of a fearful woman.

It seemed to Harrad-Sar that something glittered in those shining eyes.

_Tears?_

_Could he see t__ears?_

_Was it possible for a Vulcan female to shed tears?_

An image, a vision, suddenly invaded Harrad-Sar's mind.

_How… how did T'Pol's eyes look when she saw and understood the fate that had been decreed for her? Did they look for someone who could wipe away the tears of fear and terror that, Vulcan or not, she must have felt emerge on her trembling eyelashes?_

T'Pau's eyes left Harrad-Sar and alighted on the motionless body lying lifeless on the floor. She peered intently, as if trying to detect movement; even the most infinitesimal that would reveal that he was not dead and could still act as her guide.

Then they went back to Harrad-Sar, even wider open if that was possible. She looked more scared and her eyes glistened even more.

Her eyes were searching for someone to aid her.

Harrad-Sar stared into those eyes.

"_Take care… take care... of... of..."_ Arev's last words had asked him to take care of what? Of… whom?

Suddenly Harrad-Sar became aware of the danger he and the Vulcan woman were in. At any instant they could be buried under the rubble of the crumbling room. They had to get out this room, abandon the whole palace, to reach the outside.

But, outside – and there could be no doubt about this - they would find a city without any means to defend itself. They would be prey... - Harrad-Sar knew this for sure - …prey of the merciless soldiers of the Empire.

Abruptly Harrad-Sar felt a strange, unknown lump form in his throat.

_They would be the p__rey of the brutal warriors that followed General Hayes._

General Hayes, General Hayes… very well known for paying particular _**attention**_ toward women; especially Vulcan women. If what had been rumoured was true, the General liked to take personal revenge on _**a certain**_ man in that way. Say for example, Tucker, who had managed to have what no other human man had had, a prize that he, Hayes, the true sadistic face of the Human Empire, craved.

_The true sadistic face of the Human Empire; General Hayes._

Harrad-Sar clenched his eyes tight.

He wouldn't allow that to happen, not to this Vulcan woman; not to T'Pau.

He couldn't understand what the hell was happening to him, and, thinking in terms he had heard Humans use - he didn't give a damn about the how and the why.

_**All he knew was that it simply, wouldn't happen to T'Pau!**_

He did not know if the person who had plucked T'Pol from her fate was the same person she had searched for, to wipe away her tears, but T'Pau had found a person who would take care of her, who would wipe away her tears.

**Him: Harrad-Sar.**

He knew that Navaar would approve! Her eyes; the eyes of the mistress of his life, would smile with comprehension. She would be proud of her man! The eyes of his woman, who was waiting for him where he had left her, would meet the eyes of T'Pau, and they would understand each other. And perhaps they would be able to make sure that he could also understand.

He shook himself to action, abruptly rushing toward the young woman, who was still watching him, not realizing what he wanted to do. He grasped her arm and tugged it, trying to drag her away. But she resisted, unwilling to leave the place where her dead leader was lying.

Harrad-Sar took a short breath and stopped. He looked at the young woman and indicated the dead Vulcan with a curt movement of his chin. He spoke, in an even brusquer tone. "He is dead. Do you also want to die?"

The Vulcan gazed fixedly at him and then shook her head. She looked like a little lost bird seeking someone who might help her fly away.

Gruffly, Harrad-Sar spoke again. "So, follow me," then without giving her time to reply, he dragged her into the corridor.

They started a difficult and desperately hurried march, as fast as they could go, between burning walls and falling debris, thick choking smoke and the sinister creaking of collapsing walls and devices. They sidestepped inert bodies that lay on the floor and the craters that interspersed it. They did not meet a living soul and it was evident that they were the only ones left alive that were still in the palace, which was clearly on the verge of collapsing in on itself.

Harrad-Sar felt the hand of the Vulcan tightly hold his. She was behind him, while he worked to draw them away from that inferno.

Suddenly there was a dull roar behind them. They stopped short and swiftly turned around to see what had happened. The command room had completely collapsed, burying forever the bodies that were inside. Only rubble and debris could now be seen under the clouds of dust.

Then, just in front of them, the corridor leading from the collapsed door, started to disintegrate and fall.

The floor beneath their feet started to move and sink down as the ceiling began to crack and then crumble, breaking off in large chunks.

The noise of the fissures as they expanded became deafening. As in a nightmarish scene they moved toward them, widening threateningly.

T'Pau's hand spasmodically tightened its grip on Harrad-Sar.

It was clear to him that very shortly the corridor would entomb them in an embrace of death and then the whole palace would collapse dragging their lives and what remained of their senseless hopes along with its disastrous downfall.

Harrad-Sar ground his teeth. No! He was Harrad-Sar. His hands had crushed men and anything that got in his way; he had never surrendered, never given up. He had always managed to found a way out before.

_And he must save T'Pau. He… must take care of her._

The corsair that was within him awoke; the herculean strength of his body, tired but not prostrated by the ordeal he had experienced, was invigorated by the tension and the need that stormed through his whole being. His senses which had saved his life so many times became as tense as harp strings; he was on full alert

His nose, keener than a Vulcan female's sense of smell, noticed something, an emanation; a scent which although it still smelt of choking dust, smoke and death, was also dissimilar, somehow slightly fresher.

He focused on it and his sensitive skin perceived a waft of air - feeble, nearly impalpable.

He turned around and looked toward a corner of the corridor, immersed in plumes of thick smoke, which was being continually enflamed by the reverberation of the fire blocking a clear view.

Perhaps it was his imagination; a desire to escape, but it seemed to him that he could see something. He was sure a feeble light was fighting to penetrate through the black spirals of dust and debris.

Could it be possible? Might there be a breach in the outer wall they could use? Had he found a way out?

Without giving his actions much thought, Harrad-Sar again grabbed T'Pau's hand and furiously dragged her towards the possibly imaginary light, towards the breach that was their only hope.

After a rapid and breathless breakneck steeplechase, they found themselves standing in front of a chipped and small hole in the outer wall. A dirty ray of light filtered through to them in a lack-lustre way.

Harrad-Sar let go of T'Pau's hand and left her standing before the breach. He raised his arms and with all his strength, brought the mighty hammers of his fists down against the wall.

The wall, which had already been hard tested, yielded suddenly under the momentum of his attack and Harrad-Sar pulled forward by the impetus, found himself balanced unstably; his body half in the corridor and half outside.

And what was outside was a void; he could see the battered streets of the city from a dizzying height.

In horror, he struggled to regain his balance, but was unable to halt his impetus. He felt himself going forward, falling forward, into the void.

Suddenly and unexpectedly he stopped dead. Two tiny arms were encircling his waist: T'Pau's arms. With the force of the desperate, she impeded the inevitability of his fall. Her arms dragged him backwards until he found himself sitting, breathless, on the floor of the damaged corridor.

He lifted his eyes and saw the young Vulcan woman looking down at him, as wide-eyed she continued to pant from the effort needed to rescue him.

Harrad-Sar didn't speak. He limited himself to a small nod, to give her thanks, before quickly getting to his feet.

He approached what was now a large breach and looked out into the void that was all around them.

He heard the sound of wind whistling; a cold emptiness.

It was the only way out.

It was their only means of escape.

But it was an escape route leading to certain death.

It would be the end of the rat; he was looking at what would be his fate. The end of the rat; him! The end of Harrad-Sar! And, T'Pau would meet the same fate.

**The end of the rat!**

He looked down, towards the distant ground, his head protruding into the void while his body was braced against the wall next to the breach.

Opposite their position, but slightly lower down, was the high dome of the main Temple of the city.

It looked as though it was intact; probably because the deadly ray had concentrated its fire on the building where they were, sparing the massive Temple.

It was only a matter of time, of course. The final destruction of the Command Palace would ruinously involve the Temple, but for the moment it looked intact. Yes, intact. With all the soaring spires that surrounded the dome.

_Spires; could they act as anchor points? _

_They were intact. _

_They__ were lower down and some distance away. _

_Lower - Though__ not by too much. _

_Distant__… _

_Distant__, yes – but not too far._

His hand went, almost by its own volition, to the butt-stock of his long whip which hung tightly coiled, on the belt around his waist. It was the symbol of the ancient power of his people; of his savage and cruel profession. It was the means by which so many times - without needing the pain devices invented by Orion technology and with the pure, fierce joy found in utilizing his hands - he had foisted the ruthless law of slavery on his victims. The men, children and women he had bound into servitude.

The women…

Women, whose eyes can display such heartbreaking anguish, never mind transmit so many other emotions; like the fiercest cruelty, or the greatest joy. And of course the purest love.

The eyes of women…

_The power of the eyes of a woman…_

Harrad-Sar gripped the whip strongly in his hands. Could that instrument of torture turn into one of salvation? Could it bring him redemption?

Redemption…_**Redemption?**_ What did he mean by that? Where the hell were these thoughts coming from? What the devil had happen to him? **WHAT THE DEVIL HAD THAT DAMNED VULCAN DONE TO HIM?**

Harrad-Sar recoiled, jumping back down onto the floor, and then enraged he brusquely turned around and saw the Vulcan woman watching him with those gleaming eyes of hers. They looked at him expectantly and trustingly.

The eyes of a woman expecting that a man – a father - should provide her with…

Safety, and his protection.

In another universe, maybe but in their one...

Or perhaps… it didn't have to be that way?

_**Perhaps he could change**__** things?**_

Harrad-Sar inhaled hard and purposely shut his mind to every strange thought. He chased away any hesitancy. The time had come to act.

Looking intensely at T'Pau, he extracted the whip from his large, long and stout belt and held it with his right hand. Next he unfastened the belt and pulling it from his waistband offered it to T'Pau. The Vulcan stared at him with a frown; without understanding.

He spoke in a hollow voice. "Take the belt."

There was no more time. It was necessary to act quickly.

Harrad-Sar spoke again. "I will now turn around. You must use the belt to tie yourself tightly to me, your chest against my back. Then you must put your arms around my neck and hold on tightly to me. You must also make use of your legs; put them around my hips."

Then, swiftly, he added without grace, almost grunting, "There's no time whatsoever for any Vulcan idiotic taboos."

He turned around immediately after he had spoken, ignoring the light of incredulous understanding within T'Pau's dark pupils. When she failed to react, Harrad-Sar looked back and yelled "Come on! You must act now!"

He felt the body of the Vulcan move against his; her hands which were trembling still managed to rapidly fasten the belt around them. Her arms which were quivering still had sufficient force to encircle his neck. Then she jumped up, using his shoulders for support as she mounted him. Her legs which were initially secured tentatively then wrapped around his hips.

Now she was completely hanging onto his back and he was able to feel her body shivering and her breasts palpitate with rapid breaths; he could feel the warm waft of her respite on his neck.

He made a bet with himself that T'Pau's eyes were wide open again and showed how petrified she was, in the face of her destiny; as petrified as T'Pol's eyes had been, when she saw her fate. As terrified as the eyes of all the women that he, Harrad-Sar, had made suffer, never mind all of the women who had suffered and would go on suffering because of the wickedness in their Universe. And this would continue because of the evil in men.

As would the eyes of his Navaar, if he met his death, because, even with all the impalpable protection that her pheromones offered her, she would inevitably met the horrible fate of all women who fall prey to the wicked arrogance of the winners.

There was no salvation for women.

There had never been any hope for them.

_**That was until now.**_

Harrad-Sar climbed up to stand at the edge of the breach, tormenting the whip with his fidgety hands.

He stayed firm for an instant, in face of the void.

T'Pau's light body clung to his. Her face buried against his neck.

Harrad-Sar grabbed the broken wall of breach with his left hand to steady himself in preparation for what he was about to do. He was careful at the same time to keep a firm hold of the whip in his right hand and to have it in a position that would readily allow him to use it. He knew he had to trust the dexterity acquired in the course of his whole life, in the puissant vigour of his body, in his feral agility.

There was neither boastfulness nor braggadocio in his belief in his abilities; they were qualities that he knew he possessed in abundance. Like having the courage to act when all seemed lost.

But this time he faced the toughest ordeal of his life. And it would be a trial without the chance of appeal.

He raised his voice to dominate the whistle of the wind and the clanging that now came without interruption from inside the palace they were about to leave.

"Ready?"

He felt T'Pau's face rub the skin of his neck as she silently nodded.

_**T'Pol had found her saviour, whoever he was.**_

He crouched slightly to get as much momentum as the weight of T'Pau's body would allow. Her arms and legs clenched against his body spasmodically.

_**T'Pau had found hers.**_

Harrad-Sar leapt out into the void.

**

* * *

**

End of chapter four

A slightly difficult situation, do not you think, my friends?

Oh well! And T'Pol? And Tucker?

TBC


	5. Chapter 5 Dreams

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Five – Dreams**

* * *

_My readers, my dearest friends._

_Now, we are about to know a little bit of what Tucker is._

_Be ready, please: his scar is a dark shadow that hides even darker shadows._

_And you have to understand this._

_Before you read this chapter I feel the need to thank Enerdhil, because he gave me a suggestion that I felt as very interesting. So I used it, even if in my own way._

_And once again, my wonderful and splendid Beta and friend, Opalsmith: to you, all my loving gratitude._

* * *

**Dreams**

* * *

She slept.

Quietly.

Her face was serenely calm.

This was the first time Phlox had been able to relax and watch T'Pol while she slept. Before he had been scared she wouldn't survive for many reasons, but he was sure that her sleep had never been as placid as it appeared to be now.

He was sitting in front of the medical console, looking intently at the visage of the young Vulcan, as she slept; not a medically-induced sleep, but a natural and peaceful one.

The weariness of the long hours of physical and mental work he had had to endure while the uncertainty of T'Pol's fate had lasted, which insanely fuelled his fears in respect of the not veiled threats made by General Tucker, was slowly dissolving, leaving room for a languorous exhaustion. But still he felt that he could not afford to relax completely. He knew his life hung by a thread, because as much as Tucker appeared changed; to the extent that not only had he rescued T'Pol, but also showed towards her a strangely attentive attitude - gruff, but nevertheless indubitably caring… Okay, in spite of all this, he was still Tucker, and the man had every reason to dislike him and to be suspicious of anything he could do; and certainly Tucker, in that new and strange position of power he had among those scary aliens, was ready to cut him into slices, if he offered him the slightest pretext.

Suddenly, a sorely unwelcome and vivid image of the headless and bleeding body of Reed came into Phlox's mind: the body had been hung up on the bars of the cage in which T'Pol had been jailed.

What had meant to be T'Pol's cage of horror had become a cage of horror for Malcolm Reed.

A cold and chilling shiver ran down the length of the doctor's spine.

The recordings that he had seen from that day were too confusing and fragmented. It was not possible to see - or perhaps it was deliberately not clearly shown - how and who - above all, who - had butchered the Empress's sadistic right hand man. But he - Phlox - knew who it was. All of the others, thinking that Tucker was dead; they would rack their brains, and agree that the hatred Reed had engendered was sufficient to explain his terrible death. Even though it was perplexing that someone had raged so fiercely against him just at the juncture of T'Pol's rescue. T'Pol was the woman who, for all to see, had become the living symbol of rebellion against the Empire, and even more so for the fact that she had apparently been conniving with the Empire itself - if her rescue, then, could be more easily understood and interpreted as a kind of demonstrative action directed by someone unknown who had the strength and courage to do it ... Well, the reasons behind the slaughter of Reed, were not quite evident, regardless of how much he was hated. Why waste time in this way? Why risk so much?

Why?

WHO?

Phlox felt the shiver down his back intensify. It almost forced him to visibly shake.

He knew why, and especially he knew well whom.

Maybe his mind, forged in the harsh asperities of the Empire, couldn't fully grasp what could be meant by - in all its aspects - the fact that Tucker had wanted to rescue T'Pol. Even if he had started to figure out the unexpected - unbelievable - cause of Tucker's actions; even more perplexing for the doctor, was to work out how Tucker had managed to become... _The_ General Tucker, who, somehow held a power over those threatening Aliens.

But as for the cruel havoc of Reed…

Phlox had seen Tucker in action. He had seen the cold and fierce determination with which he was able to act, the spine-chilling capacity with which he transformed all of his intelligent emotional temperament into an equally intelligent glacial ruthlessness.

He had been a true son of the Empire.

Not infrequently, the doctor had found himself wondering what would have happened if Tucker had wanted to commit to being in command. Would it have been possible to fight him? Honestly, the doctor did not know what action Archer himself could have taken to counter a real threat from Tucker. The man was highly intelligent, about that there was no doubt, and his staff; even if some members had not been really trustworthy, were almost entirely for him. Many, many people would have followed him, if he'd wanted to lay some trap for another officer, most likely even for some very _**high-up **_officer.

On reflection, perhaps not even the Empress had enough skill, intelligence and artfulness to thwart him, not even with that treacherous being, Mayweather, at her side. Phlox hadn't been there personally to experience the Empress snatching power, obviously, or observed what role Mayweather had played in all that; but, equally obviously, he was now aware of everything.

Hoshi... would she have been able to become the Empress, if Tucker had been present?

But - and that was the core of the problem - on the other hand why would he want to oppose her, considering that he had never previously shown any sign of ambition for power? Eh sure, because, in any case, Tucker seemed to never side with anybody. To be perfectly clear… he had never looked for an advantage for himself.

It was just so, he had been a faithful soldier of the Empire.

And that was what was really strange. Not his apparent faithfulness to the Empire, but the fact that a man like him seemed to be so devoid of ambition.

At least that was what had been_ apparent _from his behaviour?

The doctor shook his head, hit by a word that had surreptitiously crept into his mind.

Apparent - why had such a word come into his thoughts? Of course, now it was clear that Tucker was fighting against the Empire; but now is now, and cause could be what happened to T'Pol, whose destiny was evidently extremely important to Tucker.

But when the doctor thought about the possibly that Tucker's fidelity to the Empire had been only a pretence... he – it was futile to deny – had had previous thoughts about Tucker's behaviour; a behaviour, which was not perfectly in line with what one might have expected. Although the faint signs of this abnormal behaviour on the part of a Starfleet Officer could actually only be perceived by Phlox now, in light of the vision of Tucker that recent events had provided the doctor with.

And as he continued to delve deeper into this problem, he wondered what anyone actually knew about Tucker? To be honest, only that he was the best engineer who existed in the Empire. And this added mystery onto mystery. Eh sure, because, in that world of snakes that had become the Human Empire, it had never been forgotten that Tucker held total control in his hands something the others didn't have: engines.

Between him and any engine, there existed a mysterious liaison, an uncanny link. All this, together with a profound - almost magical - mastery of engineering and technology, gave him a power that no one else had and… yes… it made him unique. He was even perceived as a subtly frightening figure. And, well thinking about it, he did not seem to have friends, or at least not to have allowed even one person to get close enough to him; yet the reality was that no one could really be considered a friend in the den of hyenas that was the Empire.

And with regard to his time on _Enterprise:_

He appeared ... distant. A Scary character, with that ugly scar, which in addition to everything else, made him almost repulsive, and which made people even more incapable of understanding why T'Pol – such a succulent Vulcan female - had ever wanted him.

There were many rumours about where and how he had got that scar….

Everyone knew that there was an obvious explanation for that scar; it was due to Tucker's long exposure to countless doses of deadly radiation, but, in any case, it emphasized the impalpable aura of fear and loneliness that surrounded the Commander. No, correction; _the_ General.

Sure, the General.

A General, Tucker the General verses Tucker the Commander. The engineer; the obedient servant of the Empire in opposition to, from what Phlox had observed, General Tucker, the Empire's fiercest enemy.

So, basically, who was Tucker? What did the people of the Empire think of him? And what had been the thoughts of the crew of _Enterprise_? And what of those who should have known him better than anyone else? To all intents and purposes, he was a lonely and enigmatic man, with a lot of potential power in his hands that he chose not to use, displaying behaviour absolutely in contrast to what was seen as so-called normal Human behaviour. Perhaps that was the reason why T'Pol had wanted him, namely – even if it wasn't logically the only reason – but, in his grim and tangibly mysterious way, he was different from all the other Humans.

In the short time that had passed since Tucker had left, following Valdore, who knows to do what, the doctor had found himself once again reflecting on what made Tucker so "special". Now a further concept could be added to that idea, his diverse personality. Was it possible that T'Pol had been able to feel this diversity, even if unconsciously, by means of the peculiar sensorial powers it was murmured that Vulcans had? Could the Vulcan woman be attracted to this facet of Tucker's character?

Now his thoughts were quickly following one after the other, impossible to stop, as if a compulsive frenzy had taken the place of the exhaustion he felt. It was as if Phlox wanted to offer himself a clear demonstration that, in the end, he had finally awakened from the torpor, which the recent overwhelming events had forced on him.

He looked thoughtfully at the quiet face of the sleeping woman.

In his mind, he imaged himself addressing her, as if searching for a response to the strange questions that had begun to swirl through his brain.

*_Did you find Tucker to be different, Vulcan Lady? And what was the difference you found in him, that made you think he was a worthy choice as your man? A man like him: harsh, scoffing, and physically marked by fate? Why a "Human" like him, when you could have had any of the Vulcan men you wanted? Only you, Lady of the revolt, the one who even dared to think of rebelling against the power of Humans at the very heart of their power._*

Phlox's brain worked and worked and worked...

He could not stop…

Such diversity; _diversity _and loneliness. There was an air of impalpable distance about him. As well as a kind of threatening and frightening...yes…frightening disregard; from… from a concealed rancour, a repressed hatred; a hatred that was masked... sure… masked behind a constantly derisive attitude. That could hide something much deeper; something that to be kept hidden, a secret that could not be revealed.

Different, Tucker was certainly "different".

So be it, but, why and in what way was he "different"?

Why Tucker, why a man like him who seemed to be so…what would one say…so lacking in ambition? A man who kept his distance from battles for power?

And what about his scar; where and how had he got his scar, for real? It had happened during his murky past, certainly. But…what had happened in his past to mark him so?

_All Phlox knew of him was his conduct and appearance __as a perfect Officer and man of the Empire._

_Was that all he really knew of Tucker? And… and if, in reality…?_

The quiet breathing of the Vulcan female as she peacefully slept, seemed to be in tune with Phlox's thoughts, as if the rhythmic sound was finally taking away the fear which had accompanied the recent period of the doctor's life; the fear that had prevented him from thinking with his normal perspicuity. That sound was so meaningful, because it demonstrated that his efforts had reached their aim, and this meant he was able to relax.

After such long a time, he could afford finally to let his guard down.

_It was just so._

The doctor lowered his chin to his chest, and re-focused on the course of his thoughts.

_After such a long time…but just how long, had he really been there?_

Sure, the time that had elapsed while he was in that cubicle had been long, that was a matter of fact. And, in addition, he had been more dead than alive, during the days and nights he had been vainly aware of rolling by, locked in that windowless cell, without a clear notion of how to measure the time that passed. But, after all, he was aware that he hadn't grown old in that cell; so he could not have spent an age trapped inside its walls. Certainly it hadn't been long enough to allow Tucker to gain his current position, among the Aliens. It... The doctor opened his eyes wide, finally letting himself accept without wavering an awareness that had been stirring in the depths of his mind … Tucker's rise to power was the result of something that was started far back in time, long before he had supposedly ... died, as the doctor knew that the rest of the universe currently believed.

Something had happened to Tucker far back in time.

The answer to the puzzle came from the engineer's past.

_From the past __that had given Tucker his scar._

Although the doctor raised his head, and looked up, he was not taking in the scene in front of him, because his thoughts still engrossed him.

Who was Tucker, in reality?

What was the purpose he was pursuing?

How had he been able to gain a position of trust among those Aliens? How was it possible that his authority was so important that they had decided to save him from death; at least that was the doctor's understanding of what had happened? Then why had they consented to help Tucker rescue T'Pol? And even to capture him, Phlox, so that he could heal the Vulcan?

_Who was Tucker, in reality?_

_What was the purpose he was pursuing?_

_How had he become connected to his Alien and fearsome comrades?_

_What was the nature of the game he was playing with these Aliens? _

_A__nd… what game was he playing with regard to the Empire? A game, the doctor now understood he had played for long a time. He knew what had happened to T'Pol compelled Tucker to stand up and be counted. Although, if he had not seen it with his own eyes, Phlox would never have believed that Tucker was capable of behaving in such a way; that he could feel a romantic pulse for the Vulcan female - the same one who had treated him so badly – which caused him to march out into the open and risk his life to rescue her from the horrific fate to which she had been condemned._

*_He had marched out into the open?_*

The doctor shook again his head, fiercely; almost in rage.

What the hell was he thinking? Nobody else knew Tucker was still alive; he had "marched out into the open" only for T'Pol, and for him, as well as those Aliens, of course. And, this was for sure, - a shudder ran down the doctor's spine once more - there was only one further person who had discovered that Tucker was not dead: Reed. Although he had found out just before his head had been sliced from his neck.

The fact that Tucker had chosen not to reveal that he was still alive, even to the people he was closest too - T'Pol's surprise at seeing him and what he had told her, clearly testified to this - that couldn't be without reason. Phlox didn't know what was concealed behind the evident belief that all people had about Tucker's death, as well as his own. However it was clear that Tucker felt there was some advantage in continuing the pretence.

It was evident that the game the doctor understood Tucker was playing with Empire had entered a different and new phase; and even in regard to the Aliens, it seemed, whose attitude toward "General Tucker" didn't sound particularly friendly; judging from Valdore's behaviour and signals from the others. It was as if they were not exactly convinced about what Tucker was doing and also wanted them to do; almost as if they were afraid of being cheated, in exactly the way that Tucker had evidently been able to deceive the Empire, if what the doctor thought was true. And the more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that it was true.

But, at the same time, Tucker's authority seemed too eminent, for the Aliens to not consider following his orders, or - at least - his instructions. Just so, because to Phlox it seemed that Tucker acted as if he was thinking ahead all the time. And on the other hand, how could it be otherwise? If all that was being unravelled in Phlox's mind was true - and the facts testified to it - the Aliens had to cope with a man who had been capable of deceiving the whole Empire; he had become the prototype of the perfect man of the Empire and one of its best Officers, while playing a dangerous double cross with these Aliens, in the pursuance of who knows what obscure purposes.

And as an obvious consequence, this man had become virtually indispensable to them. They had no choice but to trust him, so they had to follow his instructions. Just as the orders issued by General Tucker probably had to be respected.

Smart? A man like Tucker had to be much more than merely smart. And...Phlox patently scowled… a man like Tucker had to be extremely dangerous; even more dangerous, much more, than what the doctor had thought hitherto. Because such a dangerous game could only be played by a very dangerous man; a really pitiless man; capable of doing the most horrendous things, if he thought they were needed.

He was capable of perpetrating the most atrocious revenges against those who interfered with him, or dared to defy and hurt him.

Phlox only had to consider what had happened to Malcolm Reed.

Or consider what the fate would be of those who weren't able to live up to with his aims; to satisfy his wishes.

Like what would happen to him, if he failed to take care of T'Pol, to return her, intact and undamaged, to the arms of Tucker. It did not matter that this was an extraordinary event, the fact was that her recovery affected his well being, and all Phlox could do was take note of this. And act accordingly.

The doctor looked over at the sleeping woman, on the bed.

Yes, his life hung by a subtle thread, and this thread was lying on that bed. If he caused that thread to break, then he would suffer the end of his own life, and - a shiver ran yet again down the doctor's spine - most likely Tucker wouldn't hesitate to force him to experience the joy of the vivisection that he had inflicted on his animals.

Yeah, vivisection, the joy…no, that was inexact. The…the "pleasurable necessity" was more fitting – The pleasurable necessity of hurting defenceless creatures. For science, sure, he always acted in the pursuit of science.

The doctor again bowed his head to his chest.

He… he… he felt…

What was happening to him? What was that strange feeling; a sort of tremor within?

It was strange and unexpected.

He cast his mind back to a time, in the years of his youth, when he was a naive student.

When…when he had believed in his profession; when he had thought it was an ethical one.

Long ago; before life - a hard, harsh, ruthless life - had demanded that he change; before the Empire, had demanded that of him.

Eh sure, because one day he had faced a choice. The Empire had made demands of him and he had changed; had little by little become the Phlox that he was now. He had become the perfect – _heartless_ - doctor of _Enterprise_. The dark side of his being had been successful and had claimed all of him. Its dark shadow had mingled with the black shadow of the world into which he had been born. It had been the only possible world for him.

Sure, _he had become a vital part of what was his only possible world._

The enthusiastic young student who bowed his head over fatiguing medical texts, had long since disappeared, swallowed in the mists of a nonexistent Utopia.

But now, something had happened.

Although, what had happened had been strange, and unexpected:

Another Universe had been revealed. And apparently it was different; less harsh. It was a universe where...love seemed to have a place. A place where that Utopia; the Utopia of the years of his youth, seemed to have a reason to exist.

_There was another possible world._

Phlox had learnt a little of that other universe, and, in truth, what little he had discovered seemed ridiculous, stupid, hypocritical, too. Those others, the inhabitants of that other universe, in fact, filled their mouths with lofty ideals and noble aspirations, and then acted and behaved exactly like the inhabitants of this universe. They too could be snakes, hyenas or jackals. Although they had to face a much more aggravating circumstance, in that they longed for a better world.

Utopia. UTOPIA! A stupid, foolish and futile Utopia! Never mind that it was an illogical and dangerous ideal. A world without the Empire! But whatever would that universe be like, devoid of order and rules - hard, harsh, and mostly despised – but still an essential part of the Empire? Without the Empire, there would be Chaos, CHAOS!

There could be nothing other than chaos.

Exactly! Chaos was not a viable alternative. And if order required that the evil - albeit controlled - was the rule ... Welcome to evil!

And then ... what the hell did it matter to him? He simply had to survive and then he might have the luxury of thinking about his life. There was nothing more than that! He must try to draw maximum benefits from this world, just like everyone else.

_Just like everyone else._

Just like Archer, who had thought to become the lord of this world and had met his death due to his blind ambition.

Just like Hoshi, who had snatched hold of the biggest opportunity life had presented and had truly become the lady of this world.

Just like Mayweather, who probably hoped to take advantage of the greatness of the Empress to become her most eminent and powerful sycophant.

Just like Tucker. Tucker, yes, he had stayed in the shadows while pursuing and plotting towards an obscure purpose.

And just like T'Pol, too; who, while seeking a successful outcome for her ridiculous and futile uprising hadn't hesitated to throw the only one who had wanted to jump the barriers for her, to the winds. Even though neither he nor T'Pol had been willing to accept that they were irrevocably bound to each other.

Eh sure, because the fact was that T'Pol had wanted Tucker.

_And…__ that meant…_

Like a shadow emerging from a lost past, the latent but still vivid professional competence of Phlox; his great knack for preparation – that had disappeared in the swamp of a life that had sucked him down - was gradually rising to the light, reviving the immense capacity that had once made him a great doctor; so great that the Empire had demanded that he join their elite.

And even though he was an evil and selfish doctor, he still retained the essence of the great doctor he could have been. He also knew, by instinct, and professional curiosity what lay behind the behaviour of men and women, whatever their race.

_Consequently…_

Consequently he was well aware that a Vulcan woman does not throw away her Pon Far on just anybody.

T'Pol didn't know anything of that, but Phlox knew. There was much more inside him than the unworthy and bad doctor people believed him to be. He had studied hard. He was a real doctor; a paragon of a doctor, a doctor to whom medicine was exactly what engineering meant to Tucker. Tucker would understand his expertise and dedication to his field.

TUCKER! Tucker again! It seemed that only Tucker was able to understand such things!

But what Tucker wasn't in position to understand was that there must have been something very deep in T'Pol's behaviour; so deep that not even she knew what it meant. Certainly Tucker had not been aware of the importance of what he had done, when he agreed to appease the needs of T'Pol.

He had followed the instincts of Human male.

And she had also followed the instincts of Vulcan female.

But there had been something else.

Something that was strange and unexpected.

That's right, because instinct alone could not explain what he had seen in their eyes; never mind Tucker and T'Pol's behaviour toward each other.

Sure, and that was the crux of the matter.

Why and how was it possible for such a thing to have happened?

The doctor tried, almost rabidly, to put his thoughts in order.

It was like... yes, it was like something even stranger and more unexpected than everything else that had happened. And it was still in evidence. It was as if, for some reason, a part of that other universe, of that living Utopia, had appeared in this universe.

In the Tucker he knew.

And in the T'Pol he knew.

Or it was as if a really strange and unexpected thing – sure – but, which somehow already existed, in the folds of this harsh world. Could it be that this amazing phenomenon had been waiting for the right people to awaken it?

At the right time;

But only for the right people…

The right people to foster absurd hope in an impossible universe,

The only people, that made sense to Phlox, were Tucker and T'Pol.

The doctor's eyes darted to one of medical console screens.

There were many screens monitoring the various vital signs of the sleeping woman. Apart from the basilar corporal functions, the Vulcan's pulse rate, blood pressure, venous pressure, heart rhythm, respiratory rate, intestinal peristalsis, gastric and bladder repletion were all measured…

The screen the doctor was drawn to, showed her mental activity, in the form of wave lines, which unfolded across the monitor, displaying the current status of her neuronal and psychic processes.

One thing was clear: T'Pol was dreaming.

There was nothing wrong with that. It might be true that Vulcans do not dream, or - rather - that they attempt to repress their dream activity through meditation, because they believe it could be dangerous. It was considered too primordial, too upsetting. _For them, there was too much of a risk that their beloved and useless self-control could be compromised. _But T'Pol had not been able to meditate for a long time and therefore she could not help but dream while in a deep refreshing sleep.

So, there was really nothing wrong with that. T'Pol was finally sleeping naturally; no longer under the hold of whatever hypnotic had been administered; so that during sleep, she was able to dream naturally.

No, there was really nothing wrong with that.

What, maybe, seemed slightly wrong – or, rather, strange - was an aspect of T'Pol's dream-waves.

Eh sure, Phlox was a great doctor, rich with much cognizance. For example he knew the different patterns of dream-waves belonging to the many races that populated space; and he knew, too, that, according to the latest acquired cognitions, each individual race seemed to have their own peculiar pattern of cerebral dream-waves.

He attentively observed T'Pol's displayed oneiric brain waves.

He was confident that she was definitely dreaming.

But the surprising fact was that she was dreaming just like a Human.

_Or to put it another way, her dreams were displayed in a pattern of cerebral dream-waves practically super imposable __on a Human pattern._

Phlox stood up slowly, without letting his eyes stray from the screen.

There was something inside him that he hadn't felt for a very long time, and that he had believed he would never feel again.

It was curiosity, scientific curiosity,

And also a feeling that he had found a connection to someone else's life.

T'Pol was dreaming.

And Tucker... how could she be using his brain waves patterns in her dream?

* * *

The staring eyes of the young Orion man gazed at Hayes' face, as if they were trying to figure something out, staring in incredulous wonderment. Then the pupils moved upward, and, as the light in them faded, the man loosened his desperate grip on Hayes, and started to slip slowly towards the ground.

Hayes hacked with his knife in a sudden surge, thrusting into the Alien's flesh, where it had already been driven in, freeing him from the knife's cruel bite only for Hayes, with satisfied determination, to inflict one last fierce wound on him. He then allowed him to fall to the ground, enjoying with pleasure, the ultimate horrible grimace of pain on the Orion's face as his deliberate cutthroat act caused the final and mindful glare of a man's life as it ran away.

The man slid down bit by bit, while the spitefully smiling eyes of Hayes watched, his body slipping down against the General's body; his blood copiously dunking the Human's combat uniform.

Once the Alien was finally lying in a broken heap in front of Hayes, there were a few last gasps, and then he gave his soul to his God.

Hayes looked with grim satisfaction at the inert form by his feet. That bastard had dared assault him; too bad that the circumstances didn't allow him to treat the Alien in the way he deserved. And in addition - the General glanced sidelong at his uniform - he had dirtied his combat suit with the Orion's impure blood.

Damn Aliens, damn rebels!

With a sudden motion, the General turned around and with consummate skill flipped the knife upward into the air.

Seamlessly, in one fluid motion, he elegantly recaptured the falling knife and then threw it angrily and forcefully, at an almost impossible speed.

The knife sliced through air with a rapid and ominous whistling, until it reached its target.

The old Andorian woman was on her knees in a row of other prisoners, with the rubble of a collapsed building behind them. Her hands held behind her head, as she waited under the threat of the guns of Hayes' soldiers, the woman appeared not to have noticed what had just happened to her.

Without a moan, she slipped to the ground, her neck sliced from one side to the other by the knife.

All of the other prisoners held their breath. They stared at the body of the old woman, who had so suddenly met her death; then they locked their eyes on Hayes.

They caught sight of his eyes behind the combat helmet visor he wore.

And they understood what was about to happen.

They didn't even have time to think about trying to escape.

The deadly weapon flames extinguished all of their dreams in one blow.

* * *

For a moment it seemed as though everything around them was still; as if they were hanging in a void.

Harrad-Sar arched his back, feeling the stretch in his kidneys, as he raised his arms and elongated his body, like a diver trying to find the best position in that brief moment before the inevitable fall.

Then they began to fall.

In that instant, Harrad-Sar forced himself to let his torso to fall forward, until he found himself upside down, with his arms stretched out ahead of him as they plummeted headlong towards the far away earth.

The subtle body of T'Pau, clung onto his, as if she was without weight; like she was not even there.

But her teeth belied that impression.

They consistently inflicted pain on him as they fiercely jabbed at his bare neck.

But certainly the pain was nothing to Harrad-Sar; a mosquito bite would have been more annoying. At most, he felt the pain was useful, in that it made him even more vividly aware of the deadly madness he had thrown himself into.

And T'Pau was sinking into the madness with him.

As if he was in a movie, he saw the temple's spires approaching at the speed of a flash of light.

It was just like a surreal motion picture.

But the wind whistling around him reminded him that it was real, and they were falling in mad race towards almost certain death.

He had only one chance to avoid it, a plan born in the craziness of his brain.

And if he had failed..._T'Pau: _

Perhaps it was true that Vulcans did not dream...

But if he failed, then T'Pau wouldn't ever have any chance of dreaming again.

* * *

Phlox watched the brain waves of the dreaming T'Pol.

They were changing, becoming faster.

He turned his eyes toward the Vulcan.

She was breathing more rapidly.

She was no longer sleeping calmly.

The doctor went closer to the screen, looking again at the lines of waves.

They were intensifying.

What was T'Pol seeing in her dreams?

* * *

"Here we go, General Tucker." Valdore looked at Tucker with an impenetrable expression. "The game is yours."

He turned his eyes to the display screen.

"Show us that you're, as you Humans would say… "

He looked again at Tucker, gazing fixedly at his sombre visage,"… not a stupid… _and dangerous_… dreamer."

* * *

From among the shapeless heap of inert bodies, one started to move.

There was one was still alive.

The soldiers seemed almost irked and raised their weapons to complete their work.

A face turned toward the men; a scared face, dirty and beautiful, with two gleaming wide open eyes full of terror and tears, which flowed down the green and shiny skin of her delicate cheeks.

The charming young Orion girl regarded the soldiers from the ground, while her pheromones spread through the air, trying by instinct to make their thousand-year old play, although she knew very well it was futile against the insurmountable barrier of the filters used in the combat helmets of the Humans. She was about to bid farewell to the light and the world before ever getting a chance to truly savour it. For the girl knew she was about to be ravaged by the excruciating fire of soulless Imperial armigers.

She raised her arms in a trembling gesture of heartbreaking invocation; her lovely visage sweaty and her usual cheeky attitude, which was such a distinctive feature of Orion females, totally forgotten. Her mouth was ajar as she recited a silent prayer of fear; and then, after a several moments filled with suspense, she bowed her head, and lowered her arms, as quivering and crying silently, she awaited her fate.

"NOT HER."

The words resounded around the space, strong and imperative, surmounting the noises of death and agony; gunshots, screams, laughter and jeers from the soldiery and the moans and the shouts of dread from people at the mercy of the Empire's retaliation.

The words rolled into the ears of the young girl and frightened her much more than the terror of dying.

She recognized the one who had just spoken.

And she recognized that in the instant those words had been spoken, her life had ended as surely if her death had been ordered.

Her life would be a waking death.

She raised her head and horrified, the young girl looked in the direction from whence the words had come.

The Commander of the dreaded Elite Guard of the Empire was slowly approaching her.

He reached her and kneeled down in front of her. Although she was scared she couldn't look away from his eyes, almost hidden behind the dark visor of his helmet.

The young girl saw the cold sparkle in the diaphanous blue of those eyes.

In her nightmares she had seen that glacial glitter, many times. And now her nightmares had become reality.

The mouth beneath the helmet spoke in a sibilant murmur to her.

"You're too gracious not to deserve something… different."

The man's sneering voice scuffed the last word and then he stood up, and turned around, as if what was about to happen was devoid of any importance.

He did not pay the slightest attention to the violent hands that grabbed the girl, to her struggling and screaming; to her desperate crying, as she was imprisoned in the chains of her damnation, marked by his insignias, to be preserved for him and conveyed, unharmed, to his quarters. For him to enjoy when all was done and the leaden peace of the Empire would fall forever on the dead city.

He inhaled harshly, looking around and savouring the inebriant taste of his power; of the rottenness of the dead.

The Empress would be satisfied.

He knew she was observing everything from the safety of her Admiralty Ship. The methodical and well guided slaughter that his soldiers were bringing down on the surviving rebels would enhance his quoted value greatly; nothing would be precluded from him henceforth; the current gallant one of the Empress should beware of him.

Hayes grinned to himself; yeah, who knows perhaps the Empress would deign to select him as a recipient of her personal favours. She couldn't be that bad, if, what was whispered by Archer before his _premature_ death, and the vague hints from her bodyguards, were true. They had talked about the wild noises and the feminine chirps coming from behind her closed door, when Mayweather was inside with her.

Oh well, in any case his personal 'spoils of war' would have no problem rising to the occasion even as it fell due to leakage from some of its components… due to force majeure.

Eh sure. It was not easy… to hold his attention. - Hayes' inner grin became a malignant sneer. - That nice Orion girl would learn that the hard way, but surely he would have the opportunity to enjoy her for _**longer **_than usual, because Orions were tough people.

The grin vanished along with the pleasure he felt inside.

Sure, Orions were tough people; one of them in particular came to his mind.

Harrad-Sar - the first leader of Rebels, also their greatest and of course their final leader.

Hayes raised his head and directed his gaze ahead, toward the fumigant core of the city, where there was – or rather where there had been - the Command Centre of the Rebels. It was once been the fortified palace that had also been Harrad-Sar's residence.

He had seen it, before the ground attack had been launched. Then it had already been the prey of flames and ready for collapse and he looked forward to it being reduced to a heap of ruins, beneath which the bodies of the Resistance Leaders would be buried.

He expected Harrad-Sar's body to be among the corpses.

But if even half of the rumours about the Rebels' Orion Leader were true, it would not be surprising to discover that he was still alive.

And if he had luck on his side...

Hayes smiled openly to himself.

He wouldn't kill Harrad-Sar. No.

He would capture him - Alive. And then he would deliver him - alive and well - into the hands of the Empress.

Hayes grunted, with satisfied anticipation. The slow and frighteningly cruel death to which the Empress would condemn Harrad-Sar would be wonderful to see and enjoy. Only T'Pol, if she had the mischance to fall into the hands of the Empress again, would experience a worse death.

Hayes snorted with determination. Harrad-Sar _**had**_ to be still alive, so that he, Hayes, could find and - above all - capture him; because he could have everything he wanted in recompense. Everything, even... even that Vulcan female, that… T'Pau.

Once again he felt his mind latch onto his obsession. The rare Vulcan females he had managed to hold in his hands…

They had been without comparison; definitely.

But they were indeed difficult to find; they were rare commodity. And that T'Pau... he had seen her, and there was something about her... She was not T'Pol, that was certain, but only the departed Chief Engineer had had the good fortune to have T'Pol, and, on the other hand, if it were possible to get hold of that Vulcan bitch again, he knew for sure the Empress would not give her to him.

But that T'Pau…

Sure, she seemed to be very close to the leaders of the revolt, most likely she was herself a leader, and, consequently, could not be given as war prey to anyone other than the Empress; but if he caught Harrad-Sar and pushed him into the sweet embrace of the Empress…

Hayes started to march, heading toward the city centre, toward the place which had been the power base of rebels.

He really hoped Harrad-Sar was still alive, and that the Vulcan female was also with him.

A female scream of pain and fear drew his attention. He turned round to look at his squadron of men following behind him. One of them was roughly hauling up the Orion Girl, who had fallen and been dragged along the ground.

Hayes smiled openly, this time, while turning back again towards his destination.

This would be a very remarkable day, a day to be remembered forever. It would be a day of triumph for the Empire; and for himself.

And on this triumphal day, he would be able to feel the full measure of his success, having also caught for his pleasurable love games an Orion female. Wondrous things were told with regard to Orion women and their love abilities. And – he grinned again to himself – he had become aware by personal experience that those things were not mere rumours. His near future looked really nice.

But this was not all: if fortune would help him, maybe this could become an even brighter future, both for his dreams of ambition and with regard to his private dreams.

However, he knew that luck had to be helped; nothing was given gratuitously in this cruel world. He must not lose his concentration, it was important to be attentive and ready to seize the moment when and if it was presented.

He ceased to secretly grin, and focused on his aim.

Now the palace of Harrad-Sar came into full view. It was in flames, and was falling apart, like almost all the buildings around it. However, the Temple next to it appeared to be still intact. It seemed to be the only area that could be approached without excessive danger, at least for the moment, and... yes... probably the only route Harrad-Sar could have tried to use, if he was still alive, to escape the collapse of his headquarters.

Without hesitating, he walked firmly to the Temple, followed loyally by his soldiers, who still dragged the young Orion woman with them.

Was it really possible that he would find Harrad-Sar there, still alive and ready to fall into his hands? Would he be able to crown his triumph fully and throw himself toward greater and more substantial dreams of power and ambition?

Perhaps not, but something, possibly his evil genius which had always advised him well during his whole life, told him that he was not deceiving himself.

He felt sure that he was about to meet Harrad-Sar; as well as that charming Vulcan female.

He would complete his triumph with the capture of the Head of the Rebellion.

And...he wouldn't allow the memory of Corporal Cole's sad eyes, which still stubbornly and inexplicably flashed into his mind, to prevent him from fully fulfilling his private and lustful dreams.

* * *

"Do you not trust me, Valdore?"

Tucker's eyes had narrowed to thin slits on his ravaged face.

Valdore, despite having all the rocky self-assurance of his race, had always felt uncomfortable in front of that face and that look, from the beginning of their "working relationship". It had been the same when he had seen those eyes at a distance, in the secret, ironclad secure and rare video broadcasts which Tucker had only made when it had been absolutely necessary to communicate. At the beginning, on the even more rare occasions when he had met Tucker in person; and this latter period, during which he inevitably saw that face with a constant and not exactly welcome assiduity, it had not been particularly pleasant. That face had aged; had become tougher. And the scar, that deformity, seemed to be carried by Tucker as a mark of pain and scary darkness. It was a mark of grim solitude.

Tucker was alone when he was with Humans. And he was also alone when he was with his allies, the Romulans. In fact he still seemed to be apart from any race, no matter who he was with.

He was merely alone.

Valdore wondered if that was why he had wanted to save T'Pol? After all, it was rumoured that T'Pol had been the only one who had…warmed him.

Mh, sure. But the heat was…glacial. In the end, that Vulcan bitch had enveloped Tucker's heart in a thick layer of ice.

Ah bah! These were stupid thoughts. There was no heart in Tucker. It had been dissolved by the vitriol of life a long a time ago. And _vitriol_ was a really fitting word to use.

Hey! So why the devil was he having these _stupid_ thoughts?

_Devil?_ Mah...Perhaps he had spent a bit too much time with Humans – or more importantly with Tucker. Something about them – or rather about him - had stuck to him.

Valdore succeeded in not allowing any of his weird thoughts to show, when he finally replied. His voice, when he spoke, resounded strong and biting.

He said only one word: "No."

In response, Tucker laughed uproariously, with what seemed to Valdore, to be real enjoyment. He felt that he would never be able to understand these Humans, let alone this Tucker.

And this also made him feel uncomfortable.

Tucker recovered from his attack of laughter. He turned to Valdore with a glint of mischief in his eyes.

"Well, I cannot say that you're wrong. Surely, I cannot be considered a very reliable person, at least in regard to my relationship with the Human Empire."

"You're a..."

"I'm a traitor to my own people? Sure, Valdore. But it seems that this hasn't prevented your people from using me, and from trusting me, for your own purposes. Nor you..." - Tucker's expression had became sinisterly crafty – "... from trusting me and taking advantage of me, for _**your own**_ purposes."

Valdore turned his eyes again to the screen as his discomfort grew. If he had been Human, he would have alternately moved his centre of gravity from one leg to another. He had often observed Humans doing just that when they were ill at ease, for example… after something they would have preferred had not become common knowledge, was discovered.

He understood this feeling because it had just happened to him. The sly expression on Tucker's face reminded him that the man was too smart not to have realized that much of the information that the Human had provided, had been used by him for lots of purposes that were only personal. He had taken advantage of Tucker to advance his career by using the Human's information as he best saw fit; therefore the intelligence had not always been used in the most appropriate way to bring real benefit to his people. And if a man like Tucker, who had played an extremely dangerous double game for years, while advancing his own career, position and rank, and managing to remain alive and able to cooperate with Romulans at the same time… if such a man had decided to _subtly_ reveal that he was aware of this, at that very moment ... Well, it was certainly not meaningless.

Valdore continued to stare at the screen, while his brain worked intensely.

Basically, Tucker had told him: "Be careful, not to hinder me; there are things I know about you that it is better for you no one else knows."

And as Tucker had just said this, it meant that he'd have to take all possible precautions in this regard. It was quite logical to think that whatever might happen to Tucker, not strictly related to his current mission, could bring into full light, things that it was preferable were kept concealed; as the revelations could lead to undesirable consequences for Valdore.

Yes, damn it, he thought, cursing the ways of Humans. That man was too damn smart. Never mind that he was far too subtly dangerous. Dealing with him was like having to spar with a tiger, but in the form of a snake, to make use of the Human metaphors. And to make matters worse, he had been the one who had created this beast.

Valdore exerted control on his emotions. One day or another he would find a way to get rid of Tucker, without danger to himself of course. And it wouldn't be a pleasant end for the Human. But for now, all he could do was... how did the Humans say it? ...live with the gaff. In addition, it was certainly not the right time for him to act. Tucker was useful. And how! He was even essential, considering that what he had asserted had been found to be absolutely true. A new phase had begun in regard to relations with the Human Empire. The new technologies it had acquired required a different way of approach, a more... aggressive one. It was no longer the time just to watch, while continuing to extend an impalpable network of infiltrators into positions of power within the Empire. The fact had to faced, that the balance of force had shifted decisively in favour of the Human Empire, which meant, as Tucker rightly claimed, that it was now only a matter of time, before the Human Empire – with a new _**aggressive**_ Empress at the helm - would pull the Romulans out of the shadows they hid in. And inflict a taste of Human domination on them. It would be necessary to become more manipulative, albeit with an added need to be ultra cautious, because the current situation was not favourable. It was still necessary to act from the shadows, but also to be ready to make a show when the time was right. They had to behave cagily and prudently, but with determination.

The problem for Valdore was that he was not entirely convinced that the path of action Tucker had suggested was the right one. His mind returned to the Vulcan female. Why rescue her? Many Romulan lives had been risked during the rescue, never mind the danger of the Empire discovering that they had been behind the plot? He had risked his own life, too, by wanting to personally lead the game. And why rescue that treacherous doctor, Phlox? Why him too?

Of course, Tucker had been absolutely convincing:

_Demonstrative action... Instilling fear by doing something that was neither foreseen nor known ... The symbolic value of T'Pol as a sign of __the revolt started in the new heart of the Human Empire's power base... The undeniable help she could provide with her race, which demanded Phlox's skilful intervention to restore her good health, both mentally and physically…The need for Tucker to prove that he could also do more than just talk, particularly because of the new circumstances that existed, so the rescue team command should be his (Of course, And surely Reed had been very happy about that, considering what had happened to him!)_

And so on ...

A very true and convincing case to make:

But Tucker had always been very convincing; it was not surprising that he had become General Tucker of the Romulan Secret Services, and as a result, it was now very hard to oppose him.

Sometimes Valdore wondered if by chance he had created a monster that would eat up not only the Human Empire, but also the Empire to which Valdore gave allegiance, and for which Tucker apparently worked for as well.

Apparently…

Why had that particular word appeared at Valdore's mind? Nothing could push him to think that Tucker could behave toward the Romulan Empire in the same way he had acted toward the Human Empire. It was absolutely true that after his recruitment by Valdore himself, Tucker had provided great intelligence and skill and aided the gradual penetration of the Romulan Empire into the ganglia of the Human Empire, laying the groundwork for the future conquest. The rank of General had not been gained for nothing, on part of Tucker. And certainly it was not his fault that the Rebellion had provoked such an unexpected change in the situation. To be honest, Tucker had very quickly suggested the best action to take, in light of the new circumstances, on that occasion. Just as he did later, when the waters, already turbulent because of the Rebellion, were even more upset by the arrival of _Defiant_, and everything that had followed. Maybe, he had even reacted a little too quickly?

… _His job had been to make contact with the rebels, using discretion, and to keep a close eye on the Rebellion. It was useful to counter the power of the Human Empire, but it was also necessary that the Rebellion did not make too much headway. The victory of the rebels would have thrown the Quadrant into an ungovernable mess, and then__ all the patient work of Valdore's Empire would have been useless…_

All true, all unquestionable.

And, in effect, all agreed, by Valdore as the leader of Romulans involved in the plan. He had found that the analysis of the situation made by Tucker, and the solutions he had proposed were perfectly logical and acceptable.

And Tucker's usefulness had become indispensable.

But perhaps, to think of it, hadn't Tucker been a bit too fast in his analysis and in providing appropriate solutions?

And yet, Humans were justly famous for making rapid decisions. Some people asserted that this was also a limitation and that it would be the cause of their perdition, one fine day. But, for now, it was the main cause of their rapid, relentless and unstoppable ascent. And Tucker, with his vivid intelligence and resolute and fierce temper, was the champion of this attitude. Indeed, Valdore had been able to take advantage by watching the Human's actions and responses to problems; it could lead to taking possession of the Human Empire by the back-door. To get a hold of a species when you do not have the strength to openly fight them, it is necessary to rely on someone who thinks and acts like that species. He was after all a person, who possessed all the vices and virtues, to the highest degree of that species.

A person who could think quickly, act quickly, and take decisions decisively.

Someone who was able to face new and unexpected situations: then calculate the pros and cons of any situation, and change their mind and course of action with the speed of lightning and in accordance with rapidly changing events.

That was Tucker, and Valdore couldn't help but feel an ambivalent respect for him, mixed with a diffident admiration.

_Diffident__... _

Yeah.

Because the fact was that Tucker had the ineffable ability to put the others in front of forced choices, and make them seem to be the only valid ones.

But was it really so?

Like when Tucker realized it was time for him to appear to die, and had persuaded Valdore that this was the only valid choice, also indicating the method and timing; and dragging Phlox in tow.

Or like when, he and his superiors had been convinced that it was necessary to rescue T'Pol.

It had been presented, once again, as the only valid choice.

Or like this time, when they...

"The cat got your tongue?"

At the sound of Tucker's mocking voice, Valdore roused himself, trying to make sense of what the Human had just said.

He looked at the Human with vacant eyes and saw the light of mocking fun in Tucker's eyes.

Tucker's voice rose again, still jeering, and really amused. "I said..."

Valdore silenced Tucker swiftly. "I understood."

Tucker did not seem to give the slightest weight to the glacial and harsh tone of Valdore. He shrugged his shoulders, saying only with quiet arrogance "Ah, good."

Valdore would never get used to this. Humans... Tucker... and his abrupt and unpredictable changes in behaviour... the difficulty in realizing what he meant; to understand what was hidden behind his tone, his words... and even if there was something hidden.

It was a draining fatigue.

Even as a Romulan, he hadn't been left unharmed because of all he had gone through. His people owed him a great deal for the hard work that he had shouldered; recruiting and working with Humans and with _**this**_ Human in particular.

He couldn't understand what T'Pol saw in him.

Valdore suppressed the disturbing desire to sigh, while looking at Tucker. The Human was watching him, with a look that was saying: "So?"

Valdore understood that he couldn't remain silent. He spoke with his usual sharp and firm voice. "I was thinking, Human."

"About what?"

"I was thinking that your race often takes decisions under the influence personal feelings."

"Explain what you mean."

"Do not deny what you are because, _**that day**_, you will have chosen to act through personal need."

"Sure, and you have been doing a good job good of pushing me to make such a choice."

"That is true, and it is also true, as you Humans say, that a leopard cannot change its spots."

Tucker frowned visibly. "What do you mean, Valdore?"

"We are here, on the verge of taking an important step towards our goal, because of your influence, Tucker."

"This is the most logical course of action, Valdore. Everyone, including you, agreed to do this. It is the most rational choice."

"And absolutely not a choice based on personal feelings or needs, right Tucker?"

"What the hell, what motives could I have that are so personal, I am willing to risk my life trying to save a damn Orion rebel who is probably already dead?"

"Perhaps nothing, Human, but admit it, it's hard not to think that something personal lies behind the choice to run such a high personal risk. Considering that many Romulans will follow you in this enterprise, it would be highly regrettable that you and my men might die for a choice based on personal intentions, and even worse that we launched an action based only on these personal intentions. The fate of the Romulan Empire is at stake."

"And the fate of the Human Empire, Valdore."

"Human…"

"Romulan!" This time Tucker's voice was anything but mocking. He was brusque and loud. Never before had Valdore heard the Human speak to him like that.

The man took a short breath, then crossed his arms across his chest and looked steadily at the Romulan.

His voice was a low murmur; and sounded menacing.

"Romulan, I don't think it's time to discuss what is already established. Our course of action and the mission we are about to start have been fully debated - and approved, Valdore."

Tucker narrowed his eyes, keeping them fixed on the Romulan.

"Approved by your superiors, Valdore, just remember that..." - he paused for a instant, then spat out the last word as if it was an insult – "...Romulan!"

Valdore's eyes sparkled with anger. Romulan, Vulcan or whatever, there was a limit to his patience. "Human! This is too much! Remember who you are!"

Tucker looked at Valdore for a long time without speaking, his eyes glittering with a violent fury, his deformed face contracted in a dumb wrath.

Then the rage and fury disappeared from his visage.

He uncrossed his arms and lowered them to his sides, with what seemed like a gesture of submission, his head bowed, hiding his face from Valdore's sight.

It was just for a short instant, and then he raised his eyes to meet the Romulan's.

They, the sane normal looking eye and the one crossed by his scar, looked lacklustre; he seemed lifeless,

Gloomy,

And sad.

His voice sounded flat when he spoke.

"I know who I am, Valdore." He took a slight breath, and then went on; speaking in such a feeble voice it could hardly be heard, even with a Romulan's acute ears. "I am a vile and unworthy traitor. I am a worm with no honour, no home, and no friends. I have been marked in body and soul. I am the deceiver and the deceived. And I am condemned to live a life, day to day, without light."

The man then turned around, showing his back to Valdore, his hands crossed behind him.

Without moving, he resumed his speech, his voice full of harsh bitterness. "I have been sentenced to demonstrate my ability, my capability, and my courage every day. That I am a being worthy of life."

He turned slowly to face Valdore again, crossing his arms on his chest once more, only this time without any semblance of defiance, almost as if he wanted to protect himself. "That was the case in T'Pol's rescue; as it is now, in this mission."

The sadness in the Human's eyes seemed like deep chasms, the same feeling as reflected in his voice. "To constantly demonstrate my loyalty, by risking myself, that a worm could be given the same semblance of dignity. All in order to gain credibility from those who do not expect anything more than to crush this worm."

Valdore was caught off guard by this unexpected flow of words, so far away from the usual mode of expression he was used to from Tucker. It was so different from his normal demeanour.

He half opened his mouth to say… to say…

For the first time in his life, he found that he was at a loss for words.

Tucker raised his hand, unconsciously and mercifully saving Valdore from his search for a response, with that gesture. Then with his arms crossed again he spoke, as he gazed straight into the Romulan's eyes, his voice still in a low tone. But this time any harshness or sadness had disappeared from his voice; it was absolutely calm.

"I do not seek excuses or understanding, Valdore. You pulled the trigger, but the choice was mine. I am responsible for my life and what I am. And my choice, what I am, cannot be erased. I must do what my choice and my life require. I must fight along with you and your people. I must fight for _**our**_ cause."

After taking a very short break, Tucker spoke again, this time his voice had an icy controlled tone.

"I can understand your concerns and your puzzlement at my choices and actions, although I think it's a bit late to let them throw our mission into doubt. However, just because this road we are travelling on is long and perilous, fraught with unknowns, I think it is better to drive away any doubt, and clarify everything. You must let me know your fears immediately, before it's too late. When we act, it must be as one man to ensure that we reach the end of the road, and achieve all of our goals."

Tucker narrowed his eyes until they were slits.

"Valdore, the enemy is not me."

He raised his head to the screen and pointed at the powerful flagship of the Empress, motionless in space, and radiating an aura of quiet deadly force ready to manifest itself in all its power when the need arose.

"The enemy is out there."

Tucker lowered his visage to Valdore again, and talked, using his hands to give more weight to his words.

"Our common enemy is the Empire, Valdore; the human Empire!"

The Human clenched his fists, with restrained fury.

"The Empire that did this to me!"

He raised his right fist in front his face, tightening it so fiercely that the knuckles became white.

"The Empire that hurt T'Pol so cruelly!"

Valdore almost flinched at Tucker's last words. He narrowly managed to make a calm reply.

"So it's true, Human."

"What, Romulan?" Tucker's eyes sparkled again, in what seemed to the Romulan to be a sort of knowingly amused way.

"That your actions are influenced by your personal feelings."

"Have I ever denied this? I am Human, Valdore, I can't split mind from soul. But I don't think this is futile. On the contrary, it can be very helpful."

"Maybe, as long as it doesn't obfuscate your thought processes."

"Do you have any complaints about the role my personal feelings played with regard to the choice I made when I decided to serve the Romulan cause?"

"In that circumstance your decision came from hatred, Tucker. _**Hatred;**_ Lucid and conscious. But with regard to _**your**_Vulcan female, that was different, and such different feeling that might really blur a man's mind, from what I know, even though I am unable to understand this fact, and even though it's hard to believe that you ..."

Once again Tucker burst into laughter. It seemed that he had to force himself to stop laughing.

The tone of his voice was mocking again. "You're right, Valdore; that would be very hard to believe. Impossible, you would even say. Although it's much more difficult to believe that a Romulan could talk about such things. Don't you think, Valdore that you have been hanging out with Humans a little too long?"

Valdore had to restrain himself one more time, as he heard Tucker say aloud what he privately thought.

Suddenly, Tucker seemed to become serious, as he spoke solemnly to the Romulan. "And I must add that you're doubly right, Valdore. No, more, Triple that." And Valdore thought he caught a flash of a teasing taunt in the blue of the Human's eyes.

The Romulan looked uncertainly at Tucker, unable to discern the meaning of his tone, the contrast between his attitude and the twinkle of fun in his eyes. "What do you mean, Human?"

"Apart from what you have already underlined, it's true that I also acted on my personal feelings, when with your help, I decided to save T'Pol. It was _personal_, Valdore. And it is also true, as you rightly noted _**that she is mine**_."

The man's lips bent into a sardonic smile. "So that I can be sure you understand: I could not allow something that belongs to me, to be ruined forever. She is one of my _personal_ belongings."

The wry smile of Tucker became a bit more marked. "And when, thanks to Phlox, she is fully recovered..." - The smile grew. – "... I'll show her what I can do with what belongs to me. _What I will do to one of the most pleasantly usable of my personal belongings._"

Tucker grinned. "You know, Humans need such things; they help clear their minds, make them more able to take the right decisions, as you want me to be capable of doing. So, you can now understand why I wanted to rescue T'Pol, apart from her undoubted worth to our cause. I don't think any of your Romulan women would be willing to help me to clarify my mind, and I'm sure you wouldn't want my clarity to make decisions adversely affected. But with T'Pol..."

The sardonic smile widened into a mocking laugh. "Oh, don't worry, Valdore. Even if I must wait for T'Pol to be fully recovered in order that she can be useful to me, allowing me to act with the needed lucidity, I am at present under the beneficial effect of the _personal_ satisfaction I took from my encounter with Reed. It will be enough until T'Pol is able to fully serve me."

Valdore watched Tucker with blank eyes. No. He would never get used to this. Lies or the truth, seriousness or clowning around; all mixed together, at the same time, without any possibility of understanding where the one finished and the other began. Romulans, like their cousins, the Vulcans, didn't lie. They could hide the truth, but they didn't say one thing in the place of another. That was a Human ability, a capability that no other breed had, or at least to such a high degree. This was their most powerful secret weapon, the real secret of their success.

They were the sons of evil.

No, it was more than that. They weren't just wicked, in a wicked and debauched universe. They were beyond wickedness, because they were… _**amoral**_.

They wallowed in this evil universe.

They _**were**_ this universe.

Valdore was right. It needed the banner of Human race, to try to defeat this race.

It needed Tucker.

He was the man.

And it seemed that despite all of Valdore's suspicions; despite what Tucker had done for that Vulcan bitch, the Human was still the heartless man he had always been.

He was the standard-bearer for his heartless breed.

_Of course, this was only the case if Valdore had really understood what was true, in the disorienting game the Human used to present himself._

The Romulan attempted to take charge of this game. After all it had been Valdore who had mentored Tucker for his current role.

He nodded imperiously, and spoke firmly, avoiding making any comment in response to Tucker's words. "It's time, Human. My men are ready. It's up to you."

In that instant, he felt the uncomfortable sensation that he had swallowed the bait, as Tucker would say. And what made it worse was that he did not even know what the bait was.

However, there was no time or way at that moment. In any case, one fact was certain: the monitoring of Tucker had to be increased to the nth degree. As well as the watch kept on the Vulcan female.

Tucker nodded in turn, with that hint of a jeering smile on his face, which made him look even more deformed and disquieting under the red light of the small command bridge.

His voice sounded absolutely normal. "Good, Valdore. As you say, it is time and I am glad. You seemed almost lost in some sort of strange dream there, but obviously that's impossible: you're a Romulan; you can't be lost in dreams. Unless my bad influence has already managed to affect you to that extent."

He did not give Valdore time to respond, turning on his heel and walking quickly toward the exit. Then he disappeared beyond it.

Valdore heard him shout back one last time from the corridor.

"However, you do not need to worry. I won't tell anyone that the steely Valdore sometimes gets lost in dreams."

* * *

Phlox continued to observe T'Pol's brain waves, as shown on the monitor, his interest mixed with concern.

They were now quiet again.

As if T'Pol had got some peace in her dreams.

* * *

Tucker walked quickly down the corridor, his mind a lot quieter.

Damned Romulan! It had been a close shave! But fortunately he had succeeded in sidetracking Valdore. Certainly, it had been a hard toil, but he had managed it, and now his relief was such that it even overtook his anxieties and fears.

Yeah, but what had happened was the clearest proof that the game was really hard, now. If ever there had been a time when it could have seemed a bit easier.

_Yeah.__ Sure._

Tucker reached the transmitter field platform, on which the small group of Romulans who were to accompany him on this mission, were waiting.

_Yes, the game was becoming very, very hard._

He looked at the stiff expressionless faces of the Romulans. Sure, they were expressionless, but he could still get a sense of their mood.

_Here comes the human worm, __the treacherous and untrustworthy one. Guide us, General Tucker and do not make the slightest mistake. Otherwise, we will mercilessly crush the worm that you are_.

He was not deceiving himself: this was written on those faces. On the other hand, could he expect any different reaction? For the Romulans, he could only be a miserable deceitful worm, ready to trick them as he had deceived the Empire. The only thing that could protect him was the fact that the Romulans could not imagine something other than that his personal interests lurked behind his actions. They thought that he was there with them only because events within the Human Empire forced him to be there. And indeed this was true for the most part. What else could he do now that the arrival of the _Defiant_ had upset all his plans and inexorably cut off any possibility for him to count on his "protection"? What option had he, but to "die" and then reach those who could offer him a bit of uncertain security and their suspicious help. His plans were now completely different from the ones he had made after the first winds of the Rebellion had blown through the minds and hearts of the most disgruntled vassals of the Empire.

Yeah. And the game was hard now, much harder than it had been before. It was one thing to deal with Valdore and the Romulans from afar; something else when he had to survive in their midst.

To say that he was alone did not begin to express the depth of his loneliness.

Tucker smiled bitterly to himself. What was he thinking? When ever had he not felt alone?

Apart for those few fleeting instants when he had thought that T'Pol...

Yeah. But then T'Pol had revealed her true self. Yet, why should he expect her to be different? For the "beautiful" face - he grinned bitterly to himself – of a Human as evil and arrogant as all Humans? What else had he deserved from T'Pol, but deception and contempt? Why should T'Pol not use him in the way that women have used men all along in order to reach their aims? It was expected in a universe that did not allow them to be different, to act differently? And, in addition, how could T'Pol know that he...

And then, perhaps, if what she had done to him was for a higher ideal ... perhaps she was not like the other women of this universe; she was not without light; perhaps she ... perhaps she...

In any case, he could never have let her die in that terrible way. No. He could not have done that. Not to her. Not also to her. After... after what had happened to Lizzy!

And so he had added another very difficult to control variable to the myriad of other problems that made up his game. And what's more he had to include Phlox, in his tremendous scheme.

He felt an immense fatigue press down on his shoulders. But what was he doing? **What was he doing?** How could he think of entrusting to the absurd hope that everything he knew of Harrad-Sar; his indomitable capacity for survival, would enable him to find the Orion man, still alive, and ready to help him rebuild his dangerous and tiring game of deceit?

And yet wasn't it true, by chance, that he had always worked that way? That he had always entrusted everything to the most absurd hope? Had he killed, deceived and betrayed, always in the name of absurd hope? _**His absurd dream?**_ For that he had forced himself to change his game, totally and completely, every time the mocking fates had surreptitiously changed the cards on the table?

Hadn't it always been so? Hadn't he always entrusted everything to the most absurd dream? Hadn't he always held onto the most absurd hope? What was different in this dream; a hope he would find a man who was most likely already dead? And it was imperative that he was the one to find this man alive. He knew that if Harrad-Sar was alive and he did not get to the Orion male first, his "compassionate" Human brothers would claim this prize. And his compassionate brothers knew very well how to extract all possible information from their prisoners, even some secrets this man did not know he possessed. And that would be really unfortunate.

So, he and the Romulan team had to find Harrad-Sar, if he was still alive. But he, Tucker, could not afford to let the Romulans find the Orion without being present. It had to happen that way, because he could not fully trust that the Romulans would not yield to the temptation to interrogate Harrad-Sar if he was not there. They too, knew how to extract information, even if the prisoner was unconscious. And even this outcome would be extremely unfortunate.

Complicated? And what made this mission different from the past?

_**What?**_

Something was there. Actually it was someone, T'Pol.

This time if he fell he would drag T'Pol with him; she was now inextricably linked to him in the suspicious minds of the Romulans.

And he could not allow that to happen.

_**He could not!**_

**So, come on man! ****It was another task he had to pull off!**

What was the crazy title of that absurd movie that he had seen? That movie dating back to a time before the Empire, when power and potency had not yet completely corrupted and perverted Humans?

_**Play It Again, Sam**_.

One more time, Tucker searched his crazy sense of humour for the necessarily absurd strength he needed to get ahead in this stupid and absurd game. This was his stupid and absurd dream.

_Play It Again, Sam, _he repeated to himself, while he found a place on the platform beside the stiff and silent Romulans.

His face was a mask of nothingness; his scar was forbidding in the dark.

He motioned that the device be made operational.

Then his atoms were pulled apart and dispersed within a multicoloured light. It was always an unpleasant feeling, which he would never get used to experiencing.

In those brief, although they felt interminable, seconds of estrangement, he was aware of the tension in his mind, just like a violin bow about to engage the tension in its strings.

Then, suddenly, he found himself in another place. He was in the midst of the rebellious city, and prey to fire, destruction and death.

His ears were assaulted by screams. His eyes were horrified by the inert bodies he saw. All of his senses could feel the terror palpitating in the air.

This was nothing like what he had heard, seen, and felt from afar; when he had watched on the screens of the Romulan ship.

It was in flames and about to collapse.

Were they too late?_** Was he too late?**_

He lowered his head in consternation and his eyes fell on a motionless body, lying not far away.

The body was that of a woman. A young, beautiful and dead woman, drowned in her own blood. In the air which reverberated with flames, and clouds of the thick smoke, her blood seemed to have a greenish shimmer. She seemed ... it seemed to him that she had pointed ears.

His head sprang up as he convulsively clutched the Romulan Lirpa, a sign of his command, in his hands.

He looked toward what had been the top of Harrad-Sar's palace.

He would not fail. He would find Harrad-Sar. Yes, and he would find him alive. And then he would succeed in what he had planned for the Orion leader.

He would not allow Valdore to be right: that all of his dreams could only be stupid… _and dangerous_…

Empty, futile, unrealizable...

... and only dreams.

* * *

There was a sudden fluctuation in T'Pol's brainwaves. Then they began to spread unequally, at an irregular speed.

Phlox turned his head to regard T'Pol.

She was fidgeting under the sheet and breathing hard.

And her head moved jerkily from side to side on the pillow.

What on earth could she be dreaming about now?

* * *

_**End of chapter five**_

Yeah.

What is T'Pol dreaming?

Are you curious to know, my friends?

Tell me yes, please.

_**TBC**_


	6. Chapter 6  How To Lose Your Head

**The ****Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Six – ... How to Lose Your Head**

* * *

_**A**__**/N **_

_My dear friends, my gentle readers__: _

_I know it's been a long time since the last chapter of The Empire's Destiny. _

_I apologize, but I am here now. Or, rather, here they are. By that I mean, the trickster villain of the piece, Tucker; our 'Sleeping Beauty', T'Pol; and our not very sympathetic doctor, Phlox. And yeah, what about Harrad-Sar, and T'Pau, and of course, Hoshi, our "sweet" Empress who reigns with her gigolo, Travis Mayweather by her side? _

_Are you not a little bit curious, my friends?_

_Well, thanks once again, to my wonderful friend and splendid Beta __**Opalsmith**__, if you want to know what happens next, you can now satisfy your curiosity. Mh, I better warn you, though: all will not be revealed just yet._

_And __say a little prayer too, please, remember where we are. We are in the MU. Therefore please do not demand that Tucker and T'Pol, or whoever you like, think, act or behave here, as they would in RU._

_Nevertheless__... _

_Eh ... nevertheless..._

* * *

**The Empire's Destiny**

**Chapter Six – ****... How to Lose Your Head**

* * *

The long whip snapped suddenly with an intense hiss that ended in a violent cracking sound.

The timing was perfect, precise. It couldn't afford to be a fraction of a second early or late.

The tip of the whip coiled up, like a hungry snake, around the pinnacle Harrad-Sar had targeted, in that infinitesimal moment when he had to make a choice, then direct the whip and finally act, all while he and T'Pau were dashing towards the ground, far below them and hungry for their lives.

And from that moment on, everything seemed to take an eternity to happen, although in reality time was passing in the beat of a dragonfly's wings.

A powerful reaction force was transmitted along the whip, until it reached the hand of Harrad-Sar, who grunted hard in an effort to dominate it. He had to grab the handle of the whip with his other hand. All his muscles tensed as he struggled not to lose his grip and withstand their sudden change of direction.

His body and that of T'Pau, clinging to him like a carnivorous plant, were pushed backwards.

Harrad-Sar managed to keep his arm in its socket, while the centrifugal force tried to throw them away from the steeples of the temple, and back towards his collapsing headquarters.

Then, for a microscopic instant, they were parallel to the distant ground, while describing a curvilinear path. When they at last straightened out, at the end of their crazy trajectory, their heads were upright again, and while they hung by the scourge as if it was the thread of their lives, Harrad-Sar finally saw the wall of the temple's dome coming awfully fast at them, as if it was ready and eager to smash them.

"**Hold tight! Hold tight!**" he screamed, feeling the girl's teeth convulsively sink even more in his neck and her arms and legs clench frantically at his torso and hips.

He shifted his weight, managing to change the direction of impact. In front of them now stood the glass pane of a great skylight that he had focused in on, in the short time he had been able to observe the wall supporting the dome. He lifted his legs at right angles to his body, as he and T'Pau dashed toward the large glass window.

His feet collided with the glass. They broke through it, smashing it into a thousand pieces.

Harrad-Sar with T'Pau in tow, penetrated like a torpedo into the dome, entering the large room that was behind the now shattered glass window.

Once again his timing was perfect as his hands let go of the whip just as they were flying through the smashed window.

The accumulated momentum made them dart in a blind flight across the room. The floor, which was substantially intact, apart from some infringement caused by the power of the Empire's attack, seemed to be rushing at them.

Instinctively, without even having to think about what he was doing, Harrad-Sar prepared himself for the certainty of impact.

He would absorb the brunt force with his body, which was heavy even without the added weight of T'Pau, against the floor. Although T'Pau was slender he knew she would be weighed down by the momentum.

_He shouldn't be __too badly injured if he did that._

_It__ should prevent T'Pau from crashing too ruinously against the ground. _

_He should then be able to save himself and T'Pau again, just as they had avoided being sucked into the deadly void._

_**He couldn't squander what he had managed to do so far.**_

He did not think, did not ponder, did not reflect. He could not, there was no time.

He simply acted with the animalistic alertness that had made him a living legend: _Harrad-Sar, the man that death had never managed to grasp._

A fraction of a second, and his feet bumped against the floor, his body tensed back obliquely and his arms stretched aloft.

His powerful legs bent like springs, enabling him to absorb much of the impact.

In a fluid motion, he straightened his legs, pushing against the floor with his feet, and generating a mighty tilt, he threw himself forward, projecting his arms ahead to facilitate the action.

He succeeded in projecting his upper body forwards and fell face down, against the floor. His hands bumped flat against it, but his vigour and long experience enabled him to absorb most of the shock, as he flexed his arms as if they were springs, managing to prevent them from being broken in the same way he had succeeded in saving his legs, using both the resistance and pliability of his trained limbs.

Finally, his body hit the floor, in its entirety, but he avoided slamming his head against it and also stopped himself from turning over, which would have caused a ruinous shock to his passenger, who had no means of protecting herself.

He slithered on his belly and chest, rubbing disastrously across the floor, hurting his thighs, knees, elbows, and his hands which were stretched forward. He still kept his head straight, the woman weighing down on his back, as they were dragged by the force of momentum, until a wall restrained their mad rush.

The final violent shock against the wall was impossible to avoid.

Then, their crazy and uncontrolled travels came to an abrupt end.

Harrad-Sar lay immovable. Then he shook his head, trying to understand and focus his mind, to dissolve the fog permeating his dazed brain.

He was alive, not even he knew how, but he was alive. And he realized, for real, what he had done

He shook his head again.

_He was alive. _

And... and the small Vulcan woman hanging behind him?

He felt her weight on him, inert.

They had bumped side on against the wall, and this had prevented him from having his head smashed in the collusion.

But... the Vulcan?

He continued to lie prone on the ground. Only moving his head slightly as he tried to figure out ... Yes, her head was still there, on his shoulder.

But she wasn't moving. She was ... was stock-still.

He spoke. His voice sounded strange even to him: it was ... was soft. "Vulcan. Are you... are you ...?"

A movement. Slight. A sigh. Slight.

Her voice.

Slight and dizzy. "A... alive?"

A pause. Bated.

Another movement.

Another sigh.

Then her voice. Again.

Low.

Uncertain.

She sounded anxious, but said in a clearly audible voice, "I do not know."

Her tone grew, became more solid, even if a crack could clearly be heard in it. "Logic would say no, but apparently it would seem so."

Harrad-Sar was relieved. He did not understand what the hell was happening to him, where all this concern was coming from for a damn Vulcan female. However, he could not deny he felt concern; he had risked all to save her.

To hell! Pragmatism, first of all! The rest ... bells unimportant.

He rose gingerly on his elbows and knees, with the Vulcan's reply still in his head he could not help but giggle. These damned Vulcans! They were strong in body and spirit; there was nothing else to say!

"Logic, eh? You know for Orions, Vulcan logic has no cards to play."

He felt her warm breath on his neck. "I know, otherwise why would you dare defy Human puissance?"

This comment drove Harrad-Sar back down to the reality of their situation.

Humans. Yeah. It was not over, not at all. They still had to find a way to get down, and then move about in a city ... held by Humans.

And even if they escaped the deadly grip of the Humans, where then could they go?

Oh, to hell! One thing at a time! He was Harrad-Sar, after all. The man feared even by death! He was the deathless Harrad-Sar and he would provide evidence of this fact one more time.

Grunting and snorting he rose up, ignoring the aches and pangs that affected his entire body. The Vulcan's body seemed to be heavier than before. He felt awfully tired and full of suffering.

But he needed not to be like that. He couldn't afford it.

He spoke harshly, turning slightly toward the female's face, while his bruised and bleeding hands untangled the belt buckle that tied him to her. "Get down."

He felt her arms let go of him and her body detach itself from his. Then he heard the soft thud of her feet against the ground.

He turned and saw her.

For the God of all the pirates! Certainly she hadn't passed unscathed through everything that had happened. And although Harrad-Sar avoided turning his eyes on himself - he knew he couldn't look any better. She was horribly bruised and tattered. Her body, still unripe but already attractively fleshy, was peeking everywhere from under her robe, which had been reduced to pitiful shreds. It was also strewn with blood, partly coagulated in greenish lumps, partly still flowing from the many bruises and wounds that covered her from head to toe.

In the gray-green of her face - dirty, dusty, sweaty, and veiled by unkempt and matted hair - her large eyes stood out, glittering with unconcealed fear. A fear for all that had occurred; and for all that might be waiting to ambush them.

But still she was stony, with a firm expression on her face.

Harrad-Sar grinned darkly. "I don't think Human men could find you appetizing in this state."

"To speak like them, not even you would be taken for a little flower."

A grin broadened on Harrad-Sar's face. Yes, decidedly these Vulcans were not so bad.

Then he frowned. There was still a lot of work to do. "Are you uninjured? No broken bones? Do you feel any pain?"

She could not help but sigh. She shivered slightly, but recovered swiftly, even if her voice sounded a little tremulous. "I seem to be uninjured, except some of my ribs may be broken or just cracked; only that."

She straightened her shoulders and managed to speak with a firm voice. "And with regard to pain... I am Vulcan. I have been trained to bear and control it."

Harrad-Sar nodded silently. Yeah, after all, these Vulcans were really not bad. Or rather, this Vulcan female... eh sure... _**she**_ was indeed not bad.

"And you? How do you feel?"

Harrad-Sar almost jumped at this question. There was... well, he couldn't know this for certain, but there seemed to be concern in her tone.

Nah, that was impossible. A Vulcan couldn't feel such emotions. Nobody could feel this way for an Orion; for him, for Harrad-Sar. There was no room for such things in this Universe. The female... yes, the female needed him. She knew that, and her questions reflected that. There was nothing more... nothing more than that.

But, although it was idiotic he felt a strange knot in his throat. What was happening to him? Why had he done all those things for those eyes - _those so innocent eyes_ – belonging to the Vulcan girl? What... what had that damned Vulcan man done to him in the moments before he died?

He also straightened, chasing away those odd thoughts from his mind for the umpteenth time, in this weird day of dread and death. And he tried to ignore the inexplicable sensations he had never felt before.

He spoke with harshness. "I am Harrad-Sar. I..."

The floor shook under their feet, a low and threatening rumble.

There was no longer time for pleasant conversations. They had to get away. Fortune favours the bold, but one mustn't take too much advantage of fair-weather.

"Let's go, Vulcan. We have not escaped death in the void to find it here."

He grasped her hand, as he had done when they made their escape through his headquarters, and once more she let him do it so that he might lead her, rapidly, towards the possibility of escape.

And once more Harrad-Sar felt a sense that he needed to protect her, which he wasn't able to explain, never mind that he did not want to.

But her hand was definitely secure in his. And he felt she was following him quietly, confidently.

Just like a little girlie with her dad.

Harrad-Sar barred those strange feelings from his mind. It was not the moment to lose his head with things that couldn't be explained.

He ran to the access doorway, leading to a staircase that descended into the dome, with her in tow.

They rushed through the door and then started to race down the stairs.

Hand in hand.

* * *

Had his eyes deceived him? Was it possible? Had he lost his head by any chance? Was what he had seen true?

Up there, high up, distant, but clear, visible, distinguishable.

Two figures attached to each other...

As if in flight...

But a flight without wings that had finished quickly inside the Temple's imposing dome.

One of the figures had been much bigger than the other...

The suddenness of the fast flowing scene had been such that his quick reflexes had only kicked in at the very end, enabling him to activate the zoom inbuilt in his battle helmet visor. But that had been enough - the smaller figure... no, it hadn't been possible to identify who that was, because of the way the person was clinging to the larger body, keeping he or she hidden, concealed.

But the bigger one...

Hayes lowered his eyes to look at his soldiers.

For all their discipline, it was evident that they had been silently sounding out one another, unable to quite believe what they had seen. Even the young Orion girl seemed to have momentarily forgotten her chains, her pain and dread at her promised dark future. From her crouched position on the ground, her eyes were locked aloft; and the soldier who was holding her chains seemed to be paying no attention to his job or her, his eyes also fixed on the scene on high.

Hayes turned to look towards the base of the temple.

He focused in on its majestic door.

* * *

Had his eyes deceived him? Was it possible? Had he lost his head by any chance? Was what he had seen true?

And yet his senses had never cheated him, and his good eye had always been able to see even for the injured, even from a great distance, like the one that separated him and his minions from the high summits of Harrad-Sar's burning building and theTemple.

He had really seen those figures darting far away up there, like crazy trapezists, throwing themselves against the dome of the Temple. He had then seen those two figures, one small and one much larger, disappear into the dome.

And the big figure...

The abruptness of the scene, it had streamed by so fast, that it was only at the end his reflexes, although very quick, allowed him to activate the zoom built into the visor of his battle-helmet. But that had been enough, the smaller figure...no, it was impossible to recognise who was hidden, concealed, by the larger body.

But, in the case of the big one...

Tucker looked at his soldiers. They were in same combat uniforms as those worn by the troops of the Empire, so that they could pass as servants of the Empress Hoshi. They were looking at each other, and he was sure that if he could see their faces through the dark visors of their helmets, he would see astonishment and incredulity painted on them, regardless of who they were.

He turned his eyes and looked towards the base of the temple.

He focused in on its majestic door.

* * *

Phlox stood up suddenly. Something was wrong. T'Pol's pulse rate was dangerously accelerating, her agitation increasing. He had not dared to wake her, but now he was afraid, awfully afraid. What was going on in T'Pol's dreams? Her equilibrium was fragile. He didn't know, didn't understand, but worried that this equilibrium could break under the impetus of the strange phenomenon he was monitoring.

He broke out in a cold sweat.

This mustn't be allowed to happen; he could not let all he had gained so laboriously be lost in this way.

He visibly shivered.

He could not allow it! He could not allow General Tucker to return and find that T'Pol...

No, no! He could not allow it!

This could not, must not happen!

He didn't want to lose his head…as had happened to Reed!

* * *

Down the stairs, down into the depths of the empty building, where there were no devices that might have helped speed their escape; there was no energy to power them. Instead they climbed down through an abandoned and silent building, except for the creaks which they now could feel underfoot as well as hear, getting louder and louder.

Down, in a mad rush.

Down, hand in hand.

Down, with their minds caught up in this single thought, in this single action, in this single aim.

To go down…

Towards an exit…

Towards a crazy hope of salvation.

* * *

Phlox was standing next to the T'Pol's bed.

He clicked his fingers, uncertain about the best course of action.

Should he wake her up? But what if this made things worse? If it was not appropriate to stop what was happening?

Albeit with understandable disbelief, Phlox had begun to suspect the nature of the phenomenon that was unfolding before him. Maybe it was just an absurd idea, but if it were so? What did he really know about the strange things that lay in the ancestral folds of the Vulcan essence?

He had heard the myths about Vulcans.

But if they were not myths...perhaps any intervention on his part might cause T'Pol injury that might be irreparable.

With his hand hovering above her shoulder, ready to wake her, the Doctor was still unable to decide what he should do.

Uncertainty held him in its strong grasp.

What to do, damnit?

Just at that moment, T'Pol's eyes snapped open.

Phlox was startled, as well as scared. Then he realized that her eyes were not those of a conscious woman: they were watchful, but didn't register that he was standing there or her current surroundings. They were somewhere else, watching something or someone. T'Pol's pupils moved, as she followed the scene she was seeing in her mind. But, strangely, all of the agitation that had griped hold of her had disappeared, as testified by the physical data; her breathing and pulse, and the data from the control screen showing her cerebral activity.

Phlox was fascinated by those open eyes viewing actions happening somewhere outside the room in which she slept; because the doctor no longer had any doubt his supposition was correct.

T'Pol was really observing something, which judging by the change in her oneiric behaviour had her acute attention, as confirmed by the data he was collecting.

And what did matter above all was that although it could be argued what T'Pol was watching was only the fruit of her mind, he believed, as a result of all of his observations, that through her mind, T'Pol was seeing real events unfolding...

Phlox was lost in the contemplation of what it might mean with regard to his suspicions.

It was not only his reawakened scientific curiosity that was intrigued: it was clear, obvious, and even _logical -_ to put it in terms that T'Pol would appreciate - that if such a fact could proved it would have huge consequences for everyone.

For the Empire and its destiny.

T'Pol's eyelids descended slowly, hiding her eyes from Phlox, but he knew that even though now hidden, her eyes were still moving, still following something, a person, a thing, a scene, that T'Pol could see as if she was there herself.

And he knew that whatever she was seeing was being transmitted to her mind via the eyes and mind…_of another person._

Phlox lowered the arm with which he had intended to wake T'Pol as soon as her eyelids closed.

He retreated slowly and thoughtfully, and sat down again at his medical observation station.

No, he decided, he wouldn't wake T'Pol, wouldn't interfere.

He couldn't take any chances, he had to observe and understand.

Yes, for the moment that was all he would do. Observe and understand, and keep quiet about what he had discovered. He must only speak of this at the right time. And…act, correctly and wisely, when it was the right time.

He had to keep his head firmly on his shoulders. He certainly could not afford to lose it now.

Because...

He smiled slyly.

Well, life had been rather harsh to him recently, but who knew when things might change. Each person had a chance in this filthy world, in the Empire. All one had to do was to know when and how to grasp this chance. Of course, one must be careful: the chance that Archer had had, ended up burning him, but consider Hoshi - pardon, the Empress... well she had used the knowledge she gained to great success. Now he, Phlox, the despised doctor, not only knew what was brewing, to use a Human term. He knew that rebellion was not the only game being played, there were other - and unknown - people in this game; and he knew that Tucker was playing an important part in all this. And now he knew something that nobody else knew, not even T'Pol, not even _**The**_ General Tucker. Phlox was aware that if he found the right way to take advantage of this knowledge it could be extremely useful and beneficial for him.

Sure, something new and unexpected was happening in the Empire; something that no one - neither the old Emperor, nor the new empress, nor Harrad-Sar, the leader of the rebels, nor anyone else, let alone the _protagonists themselves_ - would have ever predicted something that could change the fate of the Empire in a totally unforeseen manner.

All Phlox had to do was to figure out what role he could have in what he was sure was being prepared for the Empire…

…A _**new**_ Destiny.

* * *

Tucker raised his Romulan lyrpa. It was similar to the ones used mostly by Vulcans, but no Human would be surprised to see it in the hands of a soldier of the Empire. They were prized spoils of war that the faithful sons of the Empire were in the habit of extorting from friends and enemies alike so where a frequent sight in battle. It was common that such 'barbaric weapons' were used in combat, as a sign of power over conquered peoples.

But in Tucker's case his lyrpa was _**the**_ symbol of his command over _**his**_ "faithful" soldiers

All of them were currently silently focused on him.

Now was the time to act and give them the right orders.

*_Make sure you keep your head, man. Take care not to lose it now, figuratively or for real._*

He did not speak, but instead made a quick gesture that everyone understood.

The men arranged themselves in a loose semicircular formation and, cautiously and carefully, began to advance towards the distant temple door, until they spotted a cohort of Human soldiers, who had beaten them to gain a position right in front of the door's mighty panels.

Tucker raised his lyrpa again, signalling for everyone to hold their position.

He observed the scene carefully and identified that the large group of warriors all wore the emblem of the Imperial Guard and that there was a young woman in chains with them, an Orion girl. The Commanding Officer... the insignia he wore...

Unconsciously, Tucker gritted his teeth.

**Hayes!**

* * *

Hayes raised his arm in an imperious gesture. Now they were just in front of the temple's entrance.

He turned to the soldier in charge of guarding the young Orion girl. "You will stay out here with her and guard her. You must also ensure that no one interferes with our mission. Whatever happens, even if the event seems most unlikely and apparently devoid of meaning, let me know immediately."

His tone became even more peremptory; his eyes darting menacingly at the soldier. "Have I made myself clear!"

Nervously, the soldier swallowed. No one would - ever - dare argue with Hayes, even if, in all honesty, he would have preferred that such an assignment be given to someone else. There was always a risk that you would lose your head when you had dealings with General Hayes, and that was not just figuratively.

But the man was a soldier of the Empire, a member of Hayes' loyal Imperial Guard.

So, he snapped to attention and shouted loud and clear: "Yes Sir, my General."

Hayes nodded. Then, without any further delay, he turned and headed for the temple's door. His voice resounded strongly as he gave the order, "Inside, with me."

He crossed the stately threshold with his soldiers and entered into the vast and majestic nave.

* * *

"Are you tired?"

"Vulcans are capable of controlling… "

The Orion cut her short, "I am."

T'Pau looked aslant at Harrad-Sar, while they continued to hotfoot it down the endless steps. She was almost breathless; practically drawing breaths through her teeth, but she would never, _could never_, admit that. Quite simply such a thought was not part, _could not be part_, of her mental training; what she had been educated to control. She was a Vulcan, after all.

_*H__owever… mh… however, if Harrad-Sar is tired...* _

She spoke with quiet nonchalance. Or at least was how it seemed to her, because ... Well, she knew it was difficult to outwit Harrad-Sar. "In this case, maybe it is better we stop for a moment."

Harrad-Sar stopped as soon as T'Pau, who, apparently, did not object to his need to rest, halted her downward flight.

He leaned his back against the railing, letting go of the Vulcan's hand. Panting, she turned towards him.

She could not lessen her breathlessness; even when she realized he was watching her intently, though she struggled desperately - in truth - with little success, to hide that she was nearly at the limit of her strength.

The Orion man smiled broadly with brazen impudence, taking open amusement from the Vulcan's manifest embarrassment. Damn! These Vulcans are really ignominiously funny, with their desire to appear like unbreakable rocks. And yet, he had to admit, there was, in this way of being, something that made this little Vulcan woman extremely fascinating, even if it was only now, in these dire circumstances, he had noticed it. He could not fully understand, but it seemed under that rind of hardness; of that hateful will to _appear_ cold and untouchable, there was a nucleus of - gentle, almost imperceptible, and therefore even more entrancing - feminine frailty.

He did not know, maybe he was mistaken; did not know that uncharted territory into which he had unwittingly ventured, but it was, as if she were to say, without uttering a word, perhaps without even thinking consciously: _Bring light to my core, my true essence. Help me, Harrad-Sar. Help me to be what I truly am._

Were all Vulcan women like that? Well, if that was the case he could really understand what that bloody Human, Tucker, if rumours were true, could have found in that Vulcan woman, T'Pol, who, besides being a formidable fighter - on that fact there could be no shadow of doubt – was also, judging by the images he had seen, damn beautiful. She was really… _appetizing_, to use his previous culinary metaphor.

With an openly mocking air, yet with a kindness that he would never have believed he had, Harrad-Sar addressed the Vulcan. "Thank you. I'm eternally grateful to you." And - incredibly - he found this little play on his part to be entertaining and enjoyable, regardless of their situation.

The Vulcan nodded, with regal aloofness, which singularly contrasted with her miserable aspect. Only, she raised her eyebrow, and this – if Harrad-Sar understood - spoke volumes.

She leaned her back against the railing next to him, and remained quiet for awhile, trying to recover.

Harrad-Sar could sense her disquiet.

He spoke softly and calmly, to infuse confidence and courage. "We'll get by. I have overcome in much worse situations." He said this even though he knew it was a lie, and he didn't really believe that the little woman would be fooled.

He heard her reply, low and uncertain, coming from beneath her dishevelled mop of hair, as she kept her face hidden while she spoke. There was a note of fear in her tone. "There are the Humans, down there."

"Yes"

"They are Warriors of the Imperial Guard."

Harrad-Sar repeated, in same dull murmur, "Yes".

T'Pau kept her head low. "And General Hayes commands them."

Harrad-Sar's voice became even lower and gloomy. "Yes."

He felt her hand rest on his arm. It felt cold and sweaty and she was noticeably trembling.

He turned to look at her and found himself staring down into her large eyes. He couldn't swear it, but they seemed misty, as if clouded... well... as if clouded by a tenuous veil of tears.

But, obviously, that was impossible; it was just his tried nerves playing tricks on him. Sure. Although ... although, if one paid attention, a note of weeping could be heard in her voice, in her tone - if not in her words per se. "It is hard to believe that, given the way I look, General Hayes might find me…" – The Vulcan visibly swallowed – "… might find me… _appetizing_. Isn't that true?"

Harrad-Sar's eyes widened, because he had just heard the Vulcan crack a joke. He knew it had taken courage, as she must be aware of Hayes' infamy; to use his words, hoping to be reassured by him. But above all because... Damn! He did not at all like that she repeated his quip in that way. It did not sound ... did not sound right, coming from her mouth. And then ... and then, come to think about it, well, it had been a really horrible witticism!

He narrowed his eyes and lowered his face toward hers. He looked at her sternly, grabbing her hand that gently rested on his arm and at the same time speaking harshly, perhaps more than was warranted.

"Do not lose your head. Hayes, if we have the misfortune to bump into him, will find you damn appetizing, my dear Vulcan, regardless of the fact your current appearance is really unappetizing." - He gave her hand a strong squeeze – "But he will not be allowed to satisfy his appetite."

He lowered his face even closer to hers and spoke ominously, but also reassuringly to her. "Actually, if we do meet him, it will be_** his**_ misfortune, not ours," - He snorted – "because I will make sure that he will never again be able to satisfy any of his appetites."

It was stupid bluster, he was well aware of that, just as he was perfectly aware that she was equally aware.

But it was what was needed. He had to find some way to - _had to!_ - infuse courage in her.

And then ... well, he was still Harrad-Sar, the one who, so far, had always managed to cheat death and doom.

And it was not done to set limits on the great God of the Pirates.

And this God … Well, it would not cost much for Him to put His hand on the heads of those who were with him, like for instance the little Vulcan female.

Somehow, his attitude - his bravado – worked, most likely because the small Vulcan wanted it to be so. She needed his audacity.

The woman nodded, clutching Harrad-Sar's hand in turn without hesitation. She spoke softly. "If you have rested enough, I think we had better continue our descent. You know, certainly your people are good at building temples, perhaps even better than they are at making piratical forays, but I do not know how much longer this old building, though robust, will remain standing."

Harrad-Sar smiled widely, with genuine amusement. Damn! He had always really underestimated these Vulcans!

He nodded again, and joked quietly. "Yes, thanks. You were very kind to let me have a little rest." - He winked. – "You know, we poor Orions, are not like you strong Vulcans."

She remained deadpan, without even the smallest reaction to his provocation, apart from limiting herself to a raised eyebrow. "Let's go?"

Harrad-Sar looked at her, giggling a little yet. "Let's go."

Hand in hand, they again began to descend.

By now, they were very close to cutting their first tape.

Harrad-Sar mentally calculated what point they had reached: yes, just few flights of stairs left, and the great temple access nave would welcome them.

* * *

Hayes and his men ventured warily into the great nave, which served as the entrance to the majestic temple; a grandiose access, a sumptuous business card, so to speak.

Even with all their stolid inability to understand the august greatness of their surroundings, lacking the latent mysticism that often resides in sentient beings; they still could not help but feel strangely intimidated.

It was immense. The tall columns that punctuated the vast space, the tops of which were as high as to be lost from view; were also incredibly numerous, countless; and dilated ad infinitum in every direction.

The nave was permeated in silence. It was soundless to the point that it could overawe. The noises, the screams, the chaos that existed outside, seemed to be afraid to enter there. The sound of their footsteps was too loud, even if restrained and muffled, and seemed out of place, there.

The nave was immersed in dimness. The light, coming in through the enormous glass windows, chased itself; performing arcane magic tricks along the walls, around the columns, and up, up, up, up high, until it disappeared into the invisible space above.

But a blade of red light from the fires that raged outside attacked the dark floor, mercilessly cutting it in two through the chink left between the huge panels of the immense door.

The world, the war, struggle, death, and destruction, had managed to gain a small foothold in there after all.

That bruised blade of light had helped bring them within the sacred building.

Yes, blasphemous death, that mocked everything, had also managed to reach in there.

Hayes and his henchmen had brought it in with them.

They brought desecration with them.

Enraged, Hayes pulled himself together, vexed and annoyed at his momentary inaptness. Whatever was he thinking to so childishly lose his head? Being impressed by a place was something only for inert spineless people; it was simply a place like many others, nothing more and nothing less. And he knew that well. The information services of the Empire had provided every detail about the topography of the entire city, every building, including this ancient temple consecrated by the Orions to their God of pirates, a God of enslavers and predators.

The huge rectangular nave, which disappeared from the view up high and in every direction, due to the indistinct gloom that enveloped it, had only two access points, one allowing access from outside, through the impressive portal which they had just used, and the one that lead to the top of the building and the dome.

Hayes smiled sardonically to himself.

There was only one method to access the dome, which he had seen Harrad-Sar crash into.

For Hayes had seen what happened very well, through his telescopic visor – Harrad-Sar hadn't smashed against the dome: he had entered into it.

Sure, maybe he had died in the process, but frankly Hayes did not think so. A devil of a man capable of challenging the void; escaping death when the building he was in collapsed around him, then reaching the relative safety of the temple by hanging by a thin thread, would not die so stupidly. He was alive, and at this moment coming down the stairs from the dome at breakneck speed, and when he reached the bottom, his only option was to go through the nave. The temple was completely devoid of energy so none of the elevators worked. And Hayes knew well where the door to the stairs to the dome was situated.

With a stony face he motioned to his men.

From that point on, no one was to speak. Harrad-Sar was too smart, he must not suspect anything. It was necessary to take him alive and Hayes was well aware that if he had the slightest suspicion they were there, he would kill himself. That was why it was better not to meet him on the stairs: if Hayes and his men revealed themselves in that way, it would cause the Orion to take his own life. Harrad-Sar was the kind of man willing to gamble everything to stay alive, everything, except for his honour and liberty. And of course he knew what he would face if he fell alive into the hands of the Empress.

A nod, a hand gesture from Hayes and his many men, with weapons in hand, moved with him. They were disciplined, silent and sure.

The shadows between the columns enveloped them. They stopped, well arranged, scattered around to form a hidden circle of Human wolfs, waiting in ambush in front of the door giving access to the stairs; from where Harrad-Sar would enter the nave as it would seem and - Hayes sneered wickedly to himself – if fortune would smile on him, another person could enter with the Orion pirate.

That small figure clinging to him in the void, holding onto him in such a way to be indistinguishable even with his telescopic visor...

Hayes grinned even more.

He thought he knew who that small shape belonged to.

* * *

They were far enough away not to arouse suspicion, quite simply one of many groups of Human soldiers who were combing the city with methodical ferocity, each under the command of an officer, in the manner normally used by ground assault troops.

There was therefore nothing suspicious about them and that must continue. They were not there to do battle, they had a specific mission, involving a few men, and they had to succeed.

Yeah, but now their mission had become pretty damn complicated. Tucker's general idea had been to find Harrad-Sar, if he was still alive, eagerly hoping that was the case, for many reasons that only he knew. Basically they would have to extract him from the "care" of his Human "friends", by getting their hands on him before anyone else had the chance, but Hayes had got there first, damnit! Of course, it was logical that fucker had wanted to ascertain the fate of the rebels' leader and, if possible, capture him. But couldn't that shitty asshole have let Tucker get there first, that damn son of a bitch?

*_Okay, do not lose heart. Think fast and then act quickly_*. And this was more urgent and necessary than ever, considering, among other things, that his soldiers – _friendly and reliable, no doubt_ – were watching him, impassively of course, but also damn happy to get an opportunity to catch him out. And to make him pay dearly if they saw any sign of hesitation on his part or any other action they might find suspicious.

*_So, let's see._*

The rational and schematic chaos that was Tucker's mind, unknown to all, apart from T'Pol who had maybe touched its complexity, analyzed the whole situation in a lightning flash.

**First****:** Harrad-Sar, that devil of a man, had managed to escape from the promise of a rat's death and had made a display of animal vitality, throwing himself at the temple, flying trough the air in such a "spectacular" way.

**Second****:** There was a chance he had been badly injured or even killed, when he penetrated the dome of the temple as if he was a jet, and, if so, it was futile to despair: everything would be over. But maybe he was still alive, and, in that case, he would be trying to reach the base of the temple, and from there to leave and try to escape being captured or killed by the Human soldiers.

**Third****:** Hayes had seen everything that had happened, just as he had, and then come to the same conclusions. Consequently, he had decided to enter the temple with his soldiers, to "accommodate" Harrad-Sar – one way or another - when he was forced to show himself.

**Fourth**: Perhaps Harrad-Sar would be killed in the embrace of Hayes' "warm" welcome and, in this case, the same reasoning as had been noted in the second option applied: despair was futile, because everything would be over in the worst way. But perhaps, indeed very probably, Hayes would have played through the scenarios to ensure that he caught Harrad-Sar alive. What better opportunity would there be for him to ingratiate himself to the highest degree with the "gentle" Empress? And get everything he wanted from her? And the whole world knew what Hayes wanted, and, particularly, that this "what" would be even more welcome if it was _Vulcan_. Tucker had difficulty explaining exactly why, but that thought enraged him.

**Fifth****:** Hoping that the whole thread of his argument had no faults or flaws, there was a fair chance that the rebels' leader would be captured alive by Hayes and his men. Therefore, relying on this hope, which was not too far-fetched, the problem was how to extract him from their _loving_ embrace, without in turn being crushed in this hug. Now, it would not be possible to free Harrad-Sar before Hayes' men captured him. There was too much disparity of numbers between the opposing forces. It would be impossible. That also meant that it was not conceivable that they could wait for Hayes to emerge from the temple, with Harrad-Sar as their prisoner. Tucker and his Romulans had to enter the temple, and try to evade the Humans waiting inside, so that they could count on surprise to literally rip Harrad-Sar from the hands of the Imperial troops, at the very moment in which they tried to catch him. Then, Tucker and his men would need to be able to fade away with the Orion.

Tucker smiled to himself with wry amusement: a doddle, nothing more. And anyway – he shrugged his shoulders – it was the only way, there was nothing else they could do.

**Sixth****:** The presence of the soldier left outside the temple by Hayes, needed to be considered. Of course, he had certainly been given the task of preserving that pretty girl for Hayes' pleasure, but his mission was not limited to this. That soldier was also on sentry duty, he had to keep lookout, with orders to warn Hayes, if something happened outside. Now, clearly the warder would not be concerned to see other Human soldiers in the area around him, but would definitely attempt to warn Hayes if other soldiers tried to enter the temple. Which meant that the soldier had to be - how best to say this? – "_silenced"_. However, this must be done without clamour, quickly and absolutely without any noise being made, not even from that juicy Orion girl.

*_So, finally make a start …_ *

Tucker looked carefully all around him. There was no one else around, either Alien or Human, except, of course, for his men, the soldier and the Orion girl. After all it was perfectly logical: the Rebel Command Building was on fire and, believed to be on the verge of collapse, and the temple, although sufficiently distant from the Palace not to be affected immediately, and apparently robust and intact, would eventually follow its neighbour in a disastrous demolition. So, why would anyone want to be there, some survivor of the city? Only Human soldiers that had good reason to move around the neighbourhood would be out there, perhaps if they were looking for Harrad-Sar or some other big shot Rebel that by sheer fluke might still be alive and able, if captured, to provide useful information to the Terrans.

Actually, and on this point Tucker counted a lot, the lone soldier might not find anything strange about another group of Humans hunting around. However, they could not afford to rely on luck. *_Do your best, the Devil will do the rest_*_._ If he wanted to act, this was the moment. He raised his Lirpa again, in a particular way. The gesture was well coded, and his men understood perfectly what it meant.

_*__… The soldier on guard would not find it at all strange for a handful of other Humans to approach the temple in order to speak to him, particularly if he is not in the company of his fellow soldiers, but in the company of an Orion girl in chains. It is a situation that certainly any man in the Human ground army would want to investigate…_*

The Romulans arranged themselves behind Tucker, who had started to move, and they began to walk smartly in a two well ordered ranks toward the temple and the soldier, who, at that point, noticed them.

_*…Of course, the soldier would__ definitely not like the sight of a whole bunch of Imperial troops marching in his direction and then coming to a halt beside him. That would arouse his suspicions. However, it would appear perfectly normal if a single officer continues to march alone to his position, to find out what is going on, as stipulated in the rules, leaving his men behind to wait and watch…_*

The Lyrpa was lifted again. The Romulan soldiers came to a halt with their weapons drawn and held at the ready for any type of action, while Tucker continued at a rapid pace towards the soldier. The guard, in his turn, levelled his weapon to point it at Tucker, but without letting go of the chain that secured the girl. She still squatted on the ground and had the look of a frightened waif painted on her face. The distance between them was very short, now. Tucker could see her eyes, wide open and fearful.

*_Come on, boy. Can you not see who I am? Can you not make out that my rank is that of a Captain in the Elite Guard?_*

The soldier suddenly snapped to attention, bringing his weapon to his chest in a position indicating a respectful greeting.

*_Bravo, kid. That's good. So you finally got it_?*

Quickly, but without undue haste, Tucker covered the short distance that separated him from "the odd couple". He stopped right in front of the soldier. He spoke calmly, in a controlled and quiet voice, "Everything in order, soldier?"

The soldier replied firmly, "Everything in order, Captain."

Tucker made a gesture full of meaning towards the girl in chains, crouching on the ground.

The soldier replied to the unspoken question in a respectful tone, although it was clear he was maliciously amused. "A spoil of war." Then he added in a patently significant tone, "Belonging to General Hayes."

"Ah, understood." Tucker spoke as if he was used to hearing that name mentioned and his foibles. "In that case..." He bent his head slightly, as if to take his leave, but then gave his Lyrpa a little shake, as if he had just realised it was in his hand, and in this way, he drew the soldier's attention to the weapon. Behind his visor, the look in the soldier's eyes spoke volumes, which had been the intention. He could not help but look intently at that wonderful and strange weapon.

Tucker spoke again, to satisfy the soldier's evident curiosity. "Beautiful, is not it?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Yeah, just so."

Then, as if he was willing to talk a bit about that weapon, which must have looked a little strange in the hands of a Captain of the Elite Guard on active duty, even if it was customary for veterans to show off their trophies of war... "You know, soldier ..." - His tone had became allusive and conniving. - "I do not think that the Vulcan who displayed this Lyrpa in his house could possibly have any need of it, now." - A little pause, then, with a malicious giggle. – "It is much better in my hands, considering that he can no longer use _**his**_ hands."

The soldier, surely a little surprised, that an Officer was being so open with him, but assuming that due to the obvious pride of possessing the weapon he desired to talk about it, decided that at the very least there would have been nothing bad or wrong - _nothing dangerous_ - in revealing that he had perfectly understood the pun made by this _likeable_ Captain; even better, maybe, one of these days, this encounter might turn out to be useful to him, if he found out who this Captain was. To share jokes with an Officer was not a small thing; he might emerge greatly strengthened by this, in some way. So, after a short hesitation, the soldier also grinned to mirror Tucker's good humour.

*_Oh, good boy, good boy. Just like that, take the bait. But, you know I do not understand how you achieved your position; you're too dumb to be part of the Elite Guards. Ah, but maybe... Certainly, muscle with just a little brain power is all that is needed to mercilessly crush the enemies of the Empire, right? You're just what Hayes wants, right?_*

**Jus****t what the Empire wanted, given their aim was to be the proud dominators of the Universe.**

The anger and bitterness toward those who thought themselves the so-called bastions of the Empire and what the Empire stood for per se rose powerfully inside Tucker, almost obscuring his satisfaction for what appeared to be the success of his fraudulent gimmick.

This was the Empire of Men! And he was a part of this! ... He was a son of this empire!

And that soldier ... that soldier, ready to hurt body and soul, as had been done to him - Tucker felt as if his scar, his marked face, was starting to burn – the mark that had made him what he was now... he was once like that soldier! He was looking at his own image, a reflection of what he used to be!

He hated that soldier!

As much as he hated himself.

He hated that soldier for what he was and for what he was destined to become, he hated himself for what he had been and for what he had become. Neither of them deserved to live. As for him, well Tucker knew he had already dug his own grave. It was only a matter of time.

As for the soldier, his fate would be Tucker's responsibility.

It was needless to postpone to tomorrow what should be done today.

*_You know, my friend, I do not think I will feel remorse, quite the opposite, in fact. _*

He lifted his weapon as if to show it off with pride. "I must say that it's really wondrous. It is incredible that a people as slothful as the Vulcans could build such things."

He raised the Lyrpa a little more. "It is perfectly balanced."

He brandished the weapon, positioning it as if he was about to hit an imaginary enemy. "With a simple but well-considered move of your arm, a weapon like this could slice of a man's head from his neck in one cut."

Most likely, if there was another life beyond this sorry one, a life of eternity, the soldier would use it trying to work out what had happened to him.

All that remained of his life, in his mind, before his head rolled away bouncing on the ground; was a fleeting vision of rapid movement, while he registered the words – "Just so!" - hissed by that Captain. In that instant a hurried thought crossed his fading mind: that perhaps it would have been wise to inform General Hayes as soon as he had seen those soldiers approach. His last feeling was that of regret that he had failed to do so.

The poor Orion girl had not realized what was happening. Before the mute scream forming in her mind could be born through her open mouth; before she fully perceived the horror of the blood issuing from the decapitated torso of the soldier, which then caught her full in her face... something, probably a swift and strong punch, not enough to be injury her badly, but well calculated, well-aimed, just right, allowed her exhausted mind to find peace in unconsciousness.

Tucker allowed himself a solitary moment of complacency. It had gone perfectly. There had not been a sound, nothing. Quickly and with deadly - it had to be said – accuracy he had succeeded. He smiled to himself as he celebrated his malignant fun. Counting Reed his score was now two. Well, certainly his Romulan instructors, considering the few and fragmentary training sessions he had, could not say that he hadn't proved himself to be a good student.

As he again raised his Lyrpa, this time to indicate that his men should join him, he looked absently at the head of the soldier, lying separate from his body, the dead orbits gazing at nothing.

A sardonic grin surfaced on his lips. "Sorry, soldier. Obviously nobody bothered to teach you never to talk to strangers?"

Then his eyes rested on the inert girl, also lying on the ground. "Eh I know, hitting a woman is not gentlemanly, but, I'm afraid the end justifies the means, not to mention that I am a sordid human. What kind of gentleman did you expect me to be? And please remember that I didn't kill you."

Yeah. He had not killed her.

Why?

At the very least it would have been easier and much simpler, because now he also had to look after the Orion girl, not to mention, make his "trusty" companions bite the bullet when they complained that his choice was a poor one to understand.

Yeah. But if he had killed her, then he would be in all respects not only similar, but equal to that soldier, to Hayes, to the Empress, never mind all the men and women who had reduced the Empire to what it was now.

The Human Empire had been born through force and prevarication, but that was normal, there is no power that is not birthed in that way. However force and prevarication cannot be replaced by pure stolid self-importance, by a stupid assumption that everything can and must be granted to you simply by reason of the power you hold, by a silly idea that it is impossible - inconceivable - that anyone would ever think to stand against you, want to be counted, that the force and the prevarication that originated your power could perpetuate it eternally, without expecting something to return. Force and prevarication cannot exist alone.

It is impossible… - Tucker frowned to himself - _*It's impossible to go on like this._*

The future of the Empire depended on the need for change.

*_Yeah. The future of the Empire depended on the need for change_*. The whore, Hoshi Sato, by seizing power had dealt the Empire a mortal blow. Even if she defeated the rebellion, the seed had been born – *_with… a little of help_* - and the Empress' blind cruelty, the shallowness of her vision, her ambition without strategy, the inevitable internal struggles that would follow her ascension to the throne, with the old political class not so ready to surrender their weapons, would undermine the potent strength of the Empire irreversibly, in spite of every possible acquired new technology. That was the fuse of destructive fire that would reduce it to ashes.

And when the Empire died, everything and everybody would fall with it.

No, really. It was not possible to go on like this; and so, even with all the spite and resentment, anger, revenge and hate he felt, indeed, just because of all that, he had understood this, and inside him - who knows how, who knows why and even why just in him - a dream had been born.

Yes, he had a dream, born from the devastation of his soul, and to make this impossible dream real he was determined to overcome anyone who stood in his way with a double-dealing ruthlessness.

He had plunged his soul into sulphuric acid.

Oh sure, He knew very well he was black-hearted, with a dark soul; deceitful, cruel, bad. An embezzler, a ... traitor; he was just like the others, even worse than the others.

But the fact was that he had acquired – _had been forced to acquire_ - knowledge of his own being, of his essence, of the essence of the Empire, even before he had become aware that there was another world where _people_, seemed to live and act differently. Much earlier than that revelation - and in the most devastating of ways – an impossible dream had seeded itself in his mind.

Certainly, he knew that it was a dream born from and nourished on hatred. He knew he couldn't be anybody other than a son of this universe, lacking soul and heart. He… hadn't been born in that other universe. But, ultimately, this dream was born in him, and he had pursued and continued to pursue it in the only way he knew.

It was the only way that he could be in this absurd and psychopathic universe.

And besides, what other choice had he? He could not deny what he was. The evil and hatred into which he was born could not be erased, and living in this universe had added more evils and a growing list of hates, and he had followed his instinct, nourished by the perversion and malice that are the mark of this universe. He had been marked by the brand of the Empire.

No, he didn't know any other way to live, it was his life.

And he knew how his life would end, one day.

The darkness, without hope of light that had engulfed him long ago, the day that his sister… that he… **(Note)**

The darkness that he had unconsciously hoped T'Pol might help him forget, at least a little, although the oddness of what had happened between them, his inability to think and behave differently from the way in which he had been conditioned, his incapability to comprehend what was happening to him; it had been such that he had treated her as though she was nothing more than a means to obtain physical satisfaction...

That darkness held him in its cold shadow, as he looked thoughtfully at the unconscious Orion woman lying at his feet.

She was meant to experience a happy and joyful life, but she had been caught in the stranglehold of the Empire's network. Her life would no doubt end in the worst way.

Just like his.

Yes, he knew what would be his fate one day: butchered, dismembered, torn to pieces. Not to forget the derision and hatred that would be heaped on him.

If his dream, his design - concealed, hidden, known neither by the Empire nor the Romulans nor by anyone else – did come true, the Empire would despise him, Humans would hate him, and Romulans would destroy him. He would be torn down cruelly and pitilessly. He would have no means of escape from their revenge for the deceit he had used to trick them. Then all his cunning would be of no use; his network built laboriously on connivances and dangerous so-called "friendships". Not to mention that there could be the real possibility that he would be hit by the avenging blows of someone of his own species, knowing that it was certain no one would defend him. At the same time the other species, former slaves of the Empire, would just scoff at the memory of a Human, who was a coward, liar and deceiver, who had died so stupidly and sordidly, fighting a war that was not his concern. He knew that his contribution to their cause would be deliberately misrepresented by his enemies and rumours would be spread malignantly about him, to heap vengeance on vengeance, so that the only picture he would leave behind would be that of a sinister villain, a man without honour or pride. What better revenge could there be than to destroy a man? To take his body, soul and the memory people would have of him.

However even if his dream did not come true, the Empire, obviously, and the Romulans, too, because of his failure to help them fight against the Human Empire, would both want to destroy him. While the other species, still slaves of the Empire, would despise and hate him, because of the possibility he could have failed and made their hellish situation even worse. And their hatred and contempt would be added to the legitimate hatred and to the righteous scorn of the Romulans, never mind the opinions of his own race who would have even more reason to despise him.

And to finish with a flourish, if fate had given victory to the Romulans, in defiance of his secret designs, it would be difficult, even impossible for him to act and behave as if all had ended exactly as his plans had envisaged, that he been achieved what he wanted, if they were victorious. Indeed, it was certain he would be eliminated by the Romulans if this ever was the case. He would be considered too treacherous; far too dangerous. In that circumstance, he would no longer be useful. It would be better to eliminate him. And Valdore certainly wouldn't offer him any help; indeed, he would be at the front of the queue ready to make the first strike.

On the other hand, regardless of whether or not his dream would be realized, his position was now that of a man constantly hovering between life and death, if possible even more so now. The sudden change on _Enterprise_, the pressure of events, the certainty that harlot who was the new Empress, together with her gang of henchmen, would have made life impossible for him, keeping a constant eye at him, limiting his freedom to take action to the extreme and preventing him from any possibility of communication with his… "Contacts", had prompted him to change his plans drastically. He had to disappear from _Enterprise_ and seek refuge in the "embrace" of his "friends", the Romulans.**(Note)** But it was a deadly embrace, because he was no longer able to limit himself to sporadic contact with them, he was constantly with them and especially with that fox Valdore, so, sooner or later, he knew he would make a mistake. And then the balance would suddenly shift its equilibrium towards his death. And because of this he had put his foot down on the throttle, knowing, that this was a race to certain death for him, regardless of the outcome.

The cold darkness inside him deepened its icy grip even more. There was no way, he knew for certain: _regardless of what happened_, that he could avoid dying in the worst possible way, and hatred and contempt would accompany his death, if only because of the ignoble way in which he had behaved and managed things. He would be labelled traitor by his people and traitor by the enemies of his people.

But that dream ... there was still that dream.

And, in the hatred and bitterness that devoured him and the whole of that Universe ... in the cold darkness of his lonely soul… maybe ... _in that dream_ ... there might be a little light, a small spark of heat even for him…

_T'Pol._

Once again, for the ten-billionth and first time after the ten billion times that he had already thought about that mystery, and knowing that he would go there again at least another ten billion times, Tucker tried to understand, and once again, was not successful.

No, he couldn't understand. That woman... that Vulcan, treacherous and rebellious, that slimy and cruel bamboozler... T'Pol.

At the very least he should feel an urge to strangle her, to dismember her into tiny pieces, to torture her to death for what she had done to him. He would not have thought twice to do that to anyone else who crossed him, if presented with the opportunity.

But instead...

When he was separated from her, he with the Romulans, and her in the hands of that Queen of Brothels, the self-appointed Empress, he... had missed her.

When, during their separation, he had thought what tortures that ignoble bitch, Hoshi, was inflicting on her, he had felt something inside, a kind of gloomy trembling; a grinding, ache.

When he had discovered the terrible death that had been reserved for her, he had foamed with rage at the bloodcurdling horror, and had to find a way to rescue her. He had played all his cards to convince his distrustful allies to help him, had lied and bluffed as never before just to achieve that aim, succeeding at last in saving her, just at the instant before she lost honour and life in a frightening manner, in that cage of horror. And, right after, he had even given up his need for retaliation against Phlox, so that the doctor might heal T'Pol. He had persuaded the Romulans to free Phlox from his cell, after convincing his pitiless allies to imprison the doctor. He had saved him in spite of the Romulans' intention to kill him, when circumstances had forced them to rescue the physician along with him** (Note)**, and in spite of a deep impulse of his own to make Phlox scientifically aware of what lay beyond life. And many times he had wondered, afterward, how and why he had made that decision to refrain from killing Phlox, instead preserving his life, convincing himself that it would be a crueller fate for that man to end his days in a cell, or even better, rotting away, forgotten in the Romulan dungeon: that should have been the doctor's fate.

It was as if, he had some kind of presentiment that there would be a need for Phlox to cure T'Pol.

T'Pol, T'Pol, T'Pol, once again, always T'Pol.

Why had he done all of that? Why hadn't he let the treacherous bitch die? And die in that terrible way, as she deserved?

What had that Vulcan whore done to him? That witch? Had this been a consequence of the mind meld, by any chance? But no, that was impossible. He had thought about that possibility many times, but it could not have been a mind meld. He knew about that strange Vulcan practice, far better than any of his own kind, because of a necessity to understand the practice. He had to handle his relations with his "friends" the Romulans, carbon copies of the Vulcans yet far more dangerous and treacherous, so consequently he had to learn all about them; all the conceivable myths and even the inconceivable ones, to avoid any unpleasant "surprises". Sure, no Romulan would have thought of dirtying his neurons, by fusing his mind with that of a Human, and, least of all, with his, but in life you never know, and, he could not run the risk that some "dear Romulan friend" might try to read what he kept concealed in his mind. Fortunately fate had helped him. Mh ... maybe, to think of it, _fate_ had been not been very nice to that old wreck, that old Vulcan professor who he had tracked down in the slums of San Francisco and who, had succumbed to adequate "unction", to train him to defend himself from any unpleasant mental attacks; but, after all, that old man was alone in the world, having ruined himself by evaporating his mind chasing the skirts of an ungrateful Orion slave; he had led such a sad life. No, Tucker was sure that… _fate _had done that miserable Vulcan a very great favour: the place where that poor man had ended up because of… that ill-omened accident was certainly better than the one into which he dragged his pitiable life. And then…well, it had also been a good thing for Tucker because one could not really trust a man like that, a stray homeless and brainless Vulcan, ready to unburden himself to anyone, especially after one glass of Andorian ale too many.

Whatever else he was, that poor old Vulcan was a real crackerjack. However, in the short time that had been available he taught him a lot of stuff about mind melds, really a lot. And because of that he seared in anger: at his weakness, for allowing himself to be taken by surprise; and against that damned traitorous Vulcan female who had surreptitiously extorted from him what she needed and implanted a telepathic suggestion to compel him to sabotage the power grid, taking advantage - _that Vulcan bitch be damned!_ - for the irrepressible desire which she had aroused in him.

That hussy had beguiled and manipulated him, had _**used**_ him treacherously, without even caring about the consequences he might have to endure!

And yet, despite all that, despite his anger, his resentment...

But how was it possible? What kind of trick had she used on him, that damn woman?

For him it had been awful. He not only had to bow to the fact that fraudulent bitch had tricked him, but he also had to find the strength to fight against what she was doing without her becoming aware that he knew what she was up to. He had to ensure she was unable to discover what was buried deep in his mind; that which she must not know, albeit, of course, in his initial surprised and wrathful helplessness she had inevitably embezzled from his brain what she wanted and had primarily sought, while he, had not known or been able to fight against the telepathic prompting she had grafted onto his mind.

Yes, it had been awful, and even more terrible had been the candid and contemptuous effrontery with which she had later disclosed to him what she had done, obviously unaware that he already knew and understood.

*_And nevertheless, in spite of all this… But how is it possible? HOW IS IT POSSIBLE THAT DESPITE ALL THIS, I ... I…_*

No, the mind meld had nothing to do with it. A mind meld was only a mental technique for sharing thoughts, experiences, memories and knowledge, exactly what T'Pol had needed from him. It was also possible to inculcate subconscious orders, of course. But what reason could she have, that damn Vulcan daughter of a demon, to order him ... what? What !, damned devil? What was this thing he felt, which he was unable to understand; all he knew was that it was so powerful it made him forget all the Vulcan bitch had done to him? And that it pushed him to risk everything he had so laboriously built just to save her, to protect her, to…

*_To have her!_*

No, by the horns of Beelzebub, it hadn't been the mind meld! Surely she couldn't have used the meld to cast a spell on him.

A spell, yeah, for the blood of the devil, a spell! Because that was what he felt had taken hold of him!

She had cast a spell on him.

She had bewitched him.

That woman, that hag, that sorceress held the power to bewitch him. She had got under his skin and reached into... inside his heart, the heart he believed he no longer possessed.

No, he was not able to understand, it was something too foreign to him and everything he knew. But ... something… a yearning had made its way through the rubble of his heart which he had thought would never beat with… with…

*_With what?_*

He was incapable of identifying what he was feeling, but it had been enough to push him to do everything he had done for T'Pol, regardless if it made his life even more difficult, and to hope… to hope that, despite all that she had done to him, despite her open contempt for him, the coldness that she had shown towards him at the end ... despite all that, maybe ... just maybe ... what she had given him might be something more than Pon Far induced carnal desire.

And if that was the case, perhaps, there was a little hope, even if he wanted to loath himself for that incomprehensible weakness, never mind being weak enough to be glad to be afflicted by that weakness. Yeah, because this unknown feeling that he felt... he wanted!

And his hope was... was...

Damn! He remembered that she had chosen him to meet her needs, and… also her attitude, her words, her... her docility toward him, when she awoke in the infirmary… that goodbye from her, when he had to leave, that seemed pervaded with concern for him... that farewell, that recommendation on her part ... _"Be careful."_

Could she be playing him again? Was it possible that, despite all that she had gone through, her ability to control herself was such to enable her to act like that, so soon after she had been rescued? Perhaps she had immediately understood that her life was in his hands, and that she ... she must be ... gentle with him? Or ... or ... when she had linked her mind to his, she had seen - and felt - a bit of that other T'Pol, the one ... in that other universe, who had made the other Tucker suffer too, but who eventually had made him ... had made him ...

Tucker smiled to himself with a weird sort of bitter pride. The other Tucker had really become the greatest of Engineers, in his own universe, so great that his technical manuals had even become the technical-scientific heritage for spacecraft in that other universe. And, in these manuals, there were many notes, written in a secret code. Secret to everyone, but him, because that code... that code was the same one he used!

And those notes were not merely scientific.

He had found something else apart from technical notations.

In those personal notes the other Tucker had said he was … happy. **Happy**! That was the word the other Tucker had used. T'Pol had made him happy.

*_… He had found contentment with __**his**__ T'Pol…_*

Damn that other version of him! He was weak, stupid, dull and inane!

But also deucedly, accursedly and unendurably enviable!

Could it be – COULD IT BE! – that his T'Pol, the one who had behaved so atrociously towards him… could it be that perhaps... one day ... she would care to warm him… with her light, and her heat?

Could she be gentle with him for at least a short while - _until his inevitable end would part him from her…forever?_

Why had he chosen not to kill the Orion girl? He .. yes ... he knew why. It was because he couldn't completely yield to what he was, to what he had to be. If he had broken her life, indeed there would be no justification for all he had done, was doing and would do in the future in the name of his absurd dreams. It would be as if all that was precious to him did not exist, as if it never existed. Never, not even... - Tucker suppressed the pang he felt inside - … not even his little sister. **(Note)**

It would be as if she had never existed.

His dreams ... his prohibited dreams ... would only be the nightmares of a sick mind.

_And T'Pol would really __have had every reason to regard him as just another disgusting son of the Human Empire._

Then harsh reality woke him from his reverie. The Romulans had reached his position.

Tucker smiled bitterly to himself. But what the hell was he hoping for? This was reality, _his reality_, the reality that he had created with his own hands in pursuit of an impossible dream.

And T'Pol ...

Another dream, a dream within a dream, one he recognised that was even more impossible.

Saving and looking after her and giving her the promise of a future, he was prepared to fight and die for that.

That was true even more now, because before she had not been within his reach.

_But having her... having her for real... _

_Having her soul…_

This was a dream that could never become reality.

Never.

Tucker shook himself vigorously. What on earth had taken hold of him? And right now, of all times? He felt the impatience of his waiting men. They were all looking at him; behind the visors, he could see their stony eyes. He took a meagre satisfaction from a kind of respect and fear he perceived in them.

Oh sure. Tucker sneered to himself, with acrid sarcasm. These warriors had not been among those who had taken part in T'Pol's rescue mission, they hadn't seen with their own eyes what he had done to Reed; they had heard about, of course, but it was one thing to listen to a story, another to be there in person. *_Okay. Not all evil can cause harm. I need to take advantage of the situation._* There would be no objections, even unspoken; to whatever order he gave.

He pointed his Lyrpa at one of the soldiers. Perhaps he had made a stupid blunder, but it seemed that the man winced almost imperceptibly and moved slightly back.

He ignored the impression the man had given him and spoke in a peremptory tone. "You, stand guard here, and watch the girl. While I doubt anyone else will come near here, you never know. Whatever happens, you must give us time to do what we need to do. How you do that, well that's your damn business. Try not to act like an idiot, like that guy." He gestured towards the headless body of the Human soldier.

Then, he beckoned to the other Romulans. "The rest of you are coming with me, inside now!"

Before moving towards the door of the temple, he again addressed the Romulan soldier who was to be left outside on guard, with smug pleasure. "See you do not lose your head."

Then grinning to himself he turned on his heels. Something told him that the Romulan had perfectly understood the double meaning of his bad joke. And, in light of recent events, he would ensure that he did his job to perfection.

* * *

Light years away, the young Vulcan woman resting in the Romulan infirmary was no longer sleeping quietly and restoratively.

There had been a sudden jolt in her, echoed in the wave patterns that recorded her brain activity, as... - Phlox considered for a moment - ...yes, as if she had seen, heard or who knows, maybe even had a strong and intense experience. All the indications were the same as he had observed before as she seemed to become re-immersed in an event only she saw, giving it tense attention.

For the first time the doctor had seen clear substance in his ideas, his suspicions, in the results of his observations.

Where was Tucker, _the General_, at this time? What was he seeing, observing, doing, feeling and experiencing? And just what was T'Pol seeing, observing, doing, feeling, and experiencing?

Certainly, beyond any consideration, of what had happened before Phlox was really intrigued. Whatever happened, he had to find out exactly what was occurring, how and why. He had to strengthen his suspicions with valid proofs, perhaps by sounding out T'Pol - how, was still to be worked out - never mind when this might be possible.

The doctor gave out a long sigh. He had to watch the Vulcan and what was being recorded by the medical instruments, while trying to remain calm and cool, but it was not easy. He had observed, with keen interest, both the sudden jolt, and the return to her earlier state and was already sweating buckets as he resisted the renewed urge to interrupt T'Pol's sleep, if, at this point, it could be really called that. But he had decided not to wake her so that was that.

Surely – Phlox rubbed his hands over his face, as if that gesture would help him make sense of what he was pondering and also calm him – he needed to think hard about all the implications of his theory, not to mention the hard test he was putting his adrenal glands, this puzzle could really make a person lose his head.

* * *

_**End of chapter six**_

_**TBC**_

_Hey, and now what will happen? _

_Certainly Tucker is in a proper jam! This man appears to have been born to have a difficult life both here and in that other universe. _

_Especially in relation to T'Pol, or so it seems._

_Eh yes, I think he will never learn._

_On the other hand, admit it please: Humans, Vulcans__, Romulans, Orions, Denobulans and Andorians... everything you would want in the mix. _

_But T'Pol ... _

_Well! Accepting a difficult life in exchange for her is pretty understandable, isn't it?_

* * *

**(Note****) **_Curious, eh? Well, my friends, you must have patience. Remember what I told you at the beginning: …if you want to, now you can satisfy your curiosity. Mh, I had better warn you, though: not completely, not at all._


	7. Chapter 7  Appearances

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Seven**

**Appearances**

_**Wolves, Jackals, Snakes. And Tigers. And Sharks.**_

_**(Glossing quickly over gorillas and with a pinch of lions.)**_

* * *

_A/N_

_It took me a little time, my dear friends, I admit it and apologize. But, here I am again, or better, here are again our "nice" heroes._

_**T'Pol **(Poor little girl; how many bad hoops she had to jump through! Better she sleeps a little longer, even if ... well ... yes, we can't honestly say that hers is exactly a refreshing sleep)._

_**Tucker** (Mh, my boys! He has lots of things to do, and very hard! Do you not think? Perhaps it is better to let him prepare himself a bit more)._

_**Harrad Sar** and **T'Pau **(Poor guys! Who knows what is expected of them! Maybe a little quiet - so to speak - can still be useful to them)._

_**Hayes** (Oh Mamma mia! What a nasty guy! I think it's better not to have to deal with him again for a while.)_

_**Phlox **(Mh, our "good" doctor is thinking one of his thoughts. Let's leave him there for a little while)._

_Then there is our poor **Orion prisoner**, **our little Orion girl** (Holy God! Considering what has happened to her and - mamma mia again! - what she seems to be doomed to, my heart bleeds at the thought to awaken her from the state of unconsciousness into which our "ineffable" Tucker has made her fall. Let us leave her thus for a little while yet)._

_Okay, you say, but then, dear Asso, what the heck are you going to tell us?_

_Well, aren't you slightly curious to know something more about our "pleasant" Empress, **Her Highness Oshi Sato the First**? And about her "amiable" Paramour (Just so: Paramour) **Travis Mayweather**?_

_We left them on the flagship of Starfleet while watching the result of the "righteous" wills of the Empress._

_Don't you want to know what they are doing (or thinking)? They are not people that can be neglected._

_In short, here, in this chapter, it is they who have a leading role._

_**Mh, but be careful. I warn you, their language is not much "lovable". I warn those who have ears slightly sensitive that, perhaps, for them it may be not exactly pleasant the manner of expressing that our two "friends" have.**_

_However, if you are missing our crystal clear Tucker and our Sleeping Beauty T'Pol, fear not; the two of them are very present in the thoughts of Her Imperial Highness Oshi Sato and. .. mh ... let's see ... of her Prince Consort Travis Mayweather ? Mh, I don't think quite frankly that the Empress is much willing to call her gallant gigolo in such a way._

**And, last but not least, a big hug and a big thanks to my sweet friend Linda, my wonderful beta, who has been willing to help me by editing this chapter.**

* * *

**Chapter Seven**

**Appearances**

_**Wolves, Jackals, Snakes. And Tigers. And Sharks.**_

_**(Glossing quickly over gorillas and with a pinch of lions.)**_

* * *

Mayweather's eyes were glued to the screen. Well, like those of everyone else, on the other hand, including ... Her Imperial Highness, Her Majesty Hoshi Sato the first.

A slight smile of derisive sufficiency has almost curled his lips, which would not be easy to explain if someone had noticed it, considering the moments they were in and… _his role_; and granted, of course, that this someone had found the courage to ask.

_The tough Empress, the glacial Empress, the resolute Empress, the cruel empress, the iron Empress._

_The first woman who had become the ruler of the Human Empire and who had been capable of squashing the riot._

Mayweather hasn't been able not to smile sardonically to himself, even in the leaden poignancy of the present circumstances.

_The Empress, sure; Her August Highness._

Mayweather reduced his eyes virtually to two chinks, while focusing on his thoughts.

_The cow, which had managed to seize power, to ascend the throne, by grace of the hotness of her cunt._

Nothing strange, this for sure. In the fight with no holds barred that the Empire was, at least in the upper echelons, and even before the Empire was born, practically all along, in a world where women could not be more than women, subject to the weakness of their being females and inevitably immersed per se, as the men, in the cult of force that formed the basis itself of the history of Humanity, they - those of them who were in a position that would allow them to do it, whom a provident Nature had supplied with _suitable means_ and who cherished some ambition - had always used sex to pursue their aims, to exercise power through the power of the men they had been able to ensnare by virtue of the shots of their pussy.

This was the world, this was the Empire, this was life. So it was and so it would be, forever. Everywhere and with every breed.

Mayweather practically frowned, inside: _Everywhere and with every breed, including the Vulcans. Except for…_

_T'Pol._

It was incomprehensible for him that in this way, it seemed, it weren't for the damn Vulcan female: she was hard, distant, inaccessible, haughty, surely. And… _free_… so it looked, from the sexual power games in which all other women he had known were in the habit of indulging in order to reach their goals. It was something that had always made Mayweather think, and that he was unable to grasp: the attraction that had driven that Vulcan whore into the arms of Tucker - a secret that was all but a secret, and less than less for the discreet and careful observer that he was and that was his hidden strength - had seemed... had appeared genuine. Just so, _genuine_. Different, perhaps, from that of human women, far away, yet true and real. And not only that; there were other things, things strangely contrasting with the logic pathway that should have been the creed of a Vulcan as she was, mainly that stupid and irrational idea to embark on another rebellion, or rather a plot, hatched right there, just while Archer was tightening his hold, not... _it seemed really so_... not for personal purposes, but to give her people the freedom they had in that other universe, a universe populated by weak jellyfishes and that Mayweather was not able to understand.

What did that mean? Was it, by chance, the blind, silly courage and the force coming from a superior… - _how was it called?_ - … from a superior ideal? And such an important ideal for her that she hadn't hesitated to disown her _patent_ attraction itself, as far as this captivation could be disguised under the veil of her usual cold and haughty way of doing, for that bastard of Tucker?

Mayweather knew he was not deceiving himself, he knew - had realized and noticed and understood - things that nobody else knew. He had ears able to hear what the others did not hear, eyes able to see what the others were not able to see, a brain capable of understanding and interpreting what the others could not even perceive. In a world of wolves and jackals, he was the snake crawling in the grass, that no one was able to see and that saw everything, from below, without anyone could notice it, and that, at the appropriate time, playing on the knowledge and information it had been able to get and on surprise, knew hitting, with the deadly poison hidden in its concealed sharp canine teeth.

But precisely because of what he was, he was not able to understand what T'Pol had done, because really behind her contradictory and backhanded actions, it seemed hidden something he could never comprehend: the pursuit of an aspiration - _an ideal, precisely_. _An ideal!_ - to which she was willing, perhaps without even fully being aware of how this was coming to blows with what she was and believed in, to sacrifice all her logic, and all herself, and even all attraction she could feed, without even realizing how this attraction was deep.

T'Pol... an idealist? Even if in the only way by which the malign universe where all of them were born had allowed her to be?

Nonsensical. And fathomless. And incomprehensible. And dangerous. DANGEROUS! Yes. A woman like this could be extremely dangerous. And even more, if one thinks about how she had been capable of fighting in that cage of horrors. She had been able to shake the asleep pride of her breed.

Mayweather became more and more pensive .

If luck had helped her a little bit more, if she had not been discovered, if she could be in a more fruitful and favourable position, it was not far-fetched that she could become the leader of her people, possibly even guiding them into a new rebellion and potentially much more redoubtable than that they were about to crush.

The Vulcans were a real part of the Empire, they were the first race that had fallen prey to the impetus of the Humans, but, at the same time, also those who involuntarily had made Humans what that they were. This made them, in a sense, privileged in the context of the races under the domination of man, not quite slaves, but rather faithful servants, even if in truth the boundary between one and other thing was considerably tenuous and blurred. But above all, this special status of theirs made them in some ways very close to the Empire itself, because they were now part of the fabric that constituted it, as well as - of course - not exactly well liked by the other races - these ones actually slaves for real of the Humans, and which could not but look with barely concealed contempt at those who, in truth, with their recklessness having contacted the Humans, had provided them, however unintentionally, with the means for their irrepressible expansionist activities.

On the other hand this peculiar position of the Vulcans made it so that they were very familiar with human things, and, therefore, if a wind of revolt had blown in their midst, this very special knowledge they had might even turn that wind into a very possibly destructive storm for the Empire.

If they had found among them or - the thought struck Mayweather with force - _even not necessarily among them _- someone capable of understanding all this, and if, in the midst of them was born a true leader, a man or… _even a woman_, who had been able to combine the intense but - in the current situation - sterile logic of today's of their race with the untamed fierceness and the savagery that was said they had once possessed...

Someone like that tiger in the shape of a Vulcan female that had appeared to be T'Pol...

Better, much better that she had disappeared, sure. Though… though perhaps, just into her disappearance, new and unsuspected dangers may be lurking for the Empire.

For Him.

Sure. _For him. For Mayweather. The true new concealed ruler of the human Empire._

The so-said Empress wasn't an exception to the way women were acting, in the Empire and in the whole Universe. The real exception was, in reality, that she had done the big pounce. She had come out from the shade. She had proclaimed herself Empress. She had the intelligence, the force and the knowledge for being the first woman in the lead of the Empire. But the fact, however, was that Her Highness Hoshi Sato hadn't ever remotely thought to accede to the throne. She was smart, definitely, and ambitious, riotously ambitious; but certainly her brain was not capable of conceiving such a grandiose design, of picking such an unexpected and providential occasion. Exploiting the power of the others, the ambitions of the others, of the men to whom she had granted her charms, and through them acquiring influence and power. In this, yes, in this she was insuperable. Like she had been with Archer, exactly so. But extending to murdering him, so as to capitalize just for herself the new power and the new weapons that fortune had put in the hands of the _unfortunately defunct_ new captain and ostensibly aspirant Emperor... Eh no, this was a flour that her mind wasn't capable of grinding.

_But…_ - Mayweather allowed himself the luxury of a secret smile of satisfied self-complacency. - _But his, yes, his mind was._

It was strange, but, after all, someway comprehensible how, just while on the screen was streaming the final scene of their - of **his** - victory, his brain was unfolding the thread of all this, of what had happened underground, behind the veil of what the others had been able to see, without being in a position to understand the true dynamics of the things, of the events, of the interaction between the main actors of the story and principally of the real interactions between him and that whore who now, owing to him, had put on the flamboyant attire of Empress.

_And, consequently, had made him the real Lord of the Empire._

The sarcastic hidden grin of Mayweather increased a bit more.

The Empress' gigolo? Her _redoubtable little-big paramour_, as he had heard being called, with ill-concealed disgust, obviously in a very low voice? Him? Oh sure, the others… may all the others be able to think so, to believe it. But the Empress, eh she no. She well knew how things were.

The sex that she had used to climb the steps of the power had been and was continuing also as the chain of her slavery.

Of her dependency.

On him.

He had ensnared her, had taken advantage of her disappointment and her anger at being refused, ignominiously rejected, just by Tucker, something really hard to understand for Mayweather and perhaps even for Tucker himself, something that perhaps only that Vulcan witch could explain. And maybe not even her.

But, be that as it may, through that unpredicted and fluky crack, Mayweather, who had no power except that of his athletic and attractive appearance, had penetrated into the bed of the not yet imperial strumpet and under her skin.

And inside her brain.

_He had become her brain._

And he had guided her brain and her flesh, trough the double-cross that she - and he - had played with that dull upstart Archer, too puffed up, too haunted by his dumb arrogance to realize that her bed wasn't ever cold, when he went under her sheets.

Oh yes, Mayweather had understood the needs and substance of that whore, she was made of his own dough, she was an adder, just as he was a rattlesnake in the shape of a python. Archer? Her way to have and exert influence: she had understood that that high-flying man could emerge victorious from the clash with the ex-captain and, therefore, she had tucked herself in his bed. After all, a little risk was acceptable for an ambitious woman like her: the lover of the potential new captain would have drawn immeasurable benefits from his success. It was enough just to be careful that no one noticed their relationship, at least until Archer could afford anything by virtue of his achieved power.

But, then, at that time, when Archer had at last got his aim, in the life of the poisonous and treacherous viper in a feminine form that had intoxicated him, into her living flesh, it had had already the chance to penetrate he, Mayweather, the snake that wraps its prey in its coils and clenches it in its stifling embrace, without ever letting it go; the tempting bewitching serpent, that has fooled Eve and charmed her dubious weak soul. The snake bearer of forbidden pleasure, from which the unknowing adder-woman harnessed in its spiral is no longer able to free herself nor she does want to do so, becoming his, even without knowing it; her will becoming that of her anguine mate, and allowing it to become what, by itself, it couldn't have ever become.

Just so, because there was one thing that nobody knew about Travis Mayweather, the dark guardian of the might and power of the chief, no matter who the chief: he was awfully ambitious without the force of being it.

He was not a wolf nor a jackal. It takes courage, to plunder the prey of the lion, too much courage. Never he could have found the strength to fight more or less openly to satisfy his ambition. But if he wasn't a wolf nor a jackal, yet he was the snake that charms and hypnotizes its prey, the snake by the powerful loins, sinuous and handsome, in his livery made of strong muscles.

Do not touch the serpent, do not fall into its mesmerizing trap, into its treacherous spell.

But Hoshi had touched it. And she had begun to hear, to experience - to savour - his murmuring, hypnotising voice.

He had whispered, insinuatingly, into her mind, as he enveloped her in his coil of lustful pleasure; had slid her along the road that he wanted her to go along, without letting her know that he was the driver.

And then, finally, for her there no longer had been anything to do: too much for her the need of his wrapping coils, her dependence on the cunning of his serpent-like advices.

Now, it was him, she could not longer do without.

And so the Empire had become hers, but the command was his, and, at this point, she had no choice but to continue along the taken road.

Of course, Her Highness the Empress was aware of everything now, now had understood, and sometimes she squirmed, but without anyone else at her side, able to make her free from the trap she had fallen into, there was nothing she could do to get rid of it.

Because she was alone.

No one else was there.

And then, to want to see well, the connubium was perfect: the spotlight, the strength, for the Empress, which was basically what she wanted, and the enveloping shadow of the hidden power for him, just as he wanted, as it wanted his soul of snake.

In her shade he could pull the strings, without being in the fullest light. The snake hates and fears the light, in bright light it may be sighted and hunted and fall prey of the wolves and then eaten by the jackals, but, in the shadows, it does not run hazards, and can make to be heard his chilling whistling without fear of being crushed by animals stronger than it.

Yes, everything was perfect and everything worked perfectly.

But ...

The complacency of Mayweather, his joy in these pleasant viperish considerations got deflated abruptly.

There was a stain in all this.

Inevitably, his mind returned to the thought that beset him and that for some instants had been lost in the delicious savouring of his power: the disappearance of T'Pol, and the dangers that in her disappearance could lurk for the Empire and for him.

Yeah, because…

Mayweather had pushed away this thought from himself and had made sure that Hoshi hadn't unnecessarily gotten lost behind such an issue without answer. There had been other and more pressing priorities, which he - and the Empress, of course, the Empress, too, sure - had had to face.

But ... _now_... now that they were about to reach their goal, to grab the complete triumph... now that his concealed concerns appeared to have been nothing but smoke without roast ... now that the fruit of the strategies that he had suggested to _Her Highness_ could be picked up without anything and no one having thought about or been able to contrast his plans...

Just now... that thought ... obsessive, worrying ... reappeared in his mind, and, indeed, even more bothering at present, because of what had just before gone through his brain: *_If Vulcans had found among them - __**or even not necessarily among them**__ - someone capable of…_*

Who had been able to weave such a well-planned, well organized, well-designed plan of action, right in the heart of the spectacle that had been set up to show to the entire universe the horrible punishment of that Vulcan bitch? Just at the right time? And, mind you, - this was the true, real obsessive thought of Mayweather - combining the strength of impact of such a striking military raid with the rescue of that whore? It was as if someone, with no strength sufficient to openly fight the Imperial forces or, anyway, not willing or unable, for some unknown reason, to engage in an open field, had deliberately chosen to take some sort of demonstrative action, by acting in the most spectacular ways, and, at the same time, by subtracting that bitch from her horrific fate.

And here was the point.

Might there be someone interested in targeting the Empire and at the same time to steal T'Pol - especially to steal T'Pol - from the horrible death which had been prepared for her?

_In short, to reduce things to lowest terms, who could have been eager to snatch T'Pol from the jaws of her dreadful fate? In that way? And… who could have thought to remove Reed from the world of the living in that ugly way? Who could have had for him such a grudge?_

Mayweather, and not only he, knew very well that there could be only one answer, or, rather, that there could be just only one _logical_ answer, but this answer could not ... - He became even more concentrated in himself - apparently... _**apparently**_... could not be the correct answer.

**Tucker**.

But Tucker was dead.

Yeah. Sure. But let aside logic, that is to say let even aside the negligible detail that - in all appearances - the damn engineer had decided to leave this vale of tears, okay; but how would he have been capable of leaving the ship with his flesh still attached to his soul or whatever he possessed in the place of a soul? And, even more, how would he have done it, that bastard, to organize the rescue operation? With the help of whom? When and how ever could he get some ally, - and which damn ally, for devil's sake? - willing to fight against the Empire? And why? He, in any appearance, of the Empire the faithful, perfect, blameless servant?

Unless…

If there was anything Mayweather knew very well was that one thing is what you appear, or you must appear or you'd better appear; other thing is what you are, that others can't see under the guise that you show, or you must show or you'd better show the world around you. Mayweather was well aware of this truth for the simple fact that he was not what everyone else thought he was. _He saw, heard and observed, from the obscure and quiet and secondary position which he had - which he had played and which in appearance he was still wearing._ And he felt - he perceived - that Tucker, he too, was... _**had been?...**_ most likely… not what others thought he was.

But, if it was so… in this case, Tucker… _apparently not wolf_… _apparently not jackal_… and surely not snake as was Mayweather… what kind of beast was he? A ... - The image was kindled suddenly in Mayweather's mind - ... a shark? That moves and works under water, just below its surface, hidden, unseen, weaving its invisible plot of concentric circles around the prey, just until its curved dorsal fin is revealed ... when by now, for the prey, it is too late?

The solitary Tucker ... the contemptuous Tucker ...

Tucker the friend of no one and confidant of no one; lone and remote, just as lone and remote as was T'Pol.

Tucker, by the frightening aspect ... perhaps ... perhaps more frightening, inside, than outside - his deformed face.

A face coming from a past that no one knew.

Oh yeah, because, to think about it, nobody had a clear vision of Tucker's past, and not even his curriculum was useful to have more precise information. Mayweather's new… position allowed him, now, to have access to the curricula of all people, and he wanted to know everything of everyone; it was… helpful. And, even if having news about a man who was no longer of this world could sound a little excessive, nearly at the limit of psychopathy, he had wanted to read also Tucker's resume.

And had found practically nothing.

There was, substantially, what couldn't be called in other way than a bunch of very sparse notes not at all exhaustive of all what this man could have been, before he had appeared on _Enterprise_.

The best engineer of the fleet, this was true. But everything else, what his resume recited ... was it really true? Or, better, even if it was true - and, to be honest, it could not be otherwise - why it was so damn scrawny, devoid of the small and large masses of information that always accompanied the report of the life of every man who served in Starfleet? It looked terribly - oddly enough - full of gaps, something that was unthinkable, inadmissible for a Starfleet officer. Why there was no news about his family? Did he have neither father nor mother, nor any kind of kinsman? But then, why wasn't this said clearly? And who had stood surety for him so that he became part of Starfleet? Someone must have done it, there was no other way for this to happen, but there was no trace of this in his curriculum.

To put it briefly, from Tucker's resume nothing definite seemed coming out, it was as if his life had been simply_ packed_ carefully.

Mayweather turned his attention to the screen. One could clearly see the chariots lined up in orderly fashion around the city, smoking and in ruins. Safety reasons had forced the interruption of any audio connection, but the vision was very clear. The devastating effects of the weapon that Terrans had developed thanks to the notes left by Tucker were clearly visible. The engineer would undoubtedly be very pleased with himself.

If he had been there to see.

But he was not there.

He was dead.

And his body had never been found.

Well, of course. How would it ever have been possible to recover something of him after the huge explosion that had reduced to ashes the place where he was, apparently - judging by the vital signs vital that had remained impressed in the recording devices - along with Phlox, who, of course, had been given up for dead too, and whose body, equally obviously, could not be not finished dispersed in infinitesimal particles? As that one of Tucker, naturally.

_Tucker, a man robbed of his future, who came from an unknown past and ended up in a present equally unknown._

Eh sure. Because nobody had ever been able to determine which were the causes of the explosion.

Well certainly, no one had really worked himself to death to rebuild the exact course of events, but, on the other hand, what need could there have been of getting lost behind a question that seemed completely futile and irrelevant in the terrible bedlam that had happened in those tumultuous days? And afterward, who could have had or would have wanted to have care to see what had occurred, _in reality_?

Mayweather went on to follow the inner flowing of his thoughts, without breaking his concentration from what was happening now and without displaying the slightest sign of what was passing in his mind. He knew how to do it. Nobody, not even the bitch who now sat on the throne, really knew what he was capable of doing. A fact that, the more he thought of it, the more he went convincing himself, could be also true for the _late lamented_ Tucker.

For example, what to say about the recording devices? Namely about the information that there could be in them about the tragedy that had put the word end to the lives of Tucker and of the doctor? Certainly nobody, who was not him, Mayweather, or also, with all probability, the deceased paranoid and psychotic Reed, could have thought to cast a glance at them. Why go to see if these devices, whose memory was stored in the database of the spaceship in which they now were, had recorded something useful to explain, even only partially, what had happened? There was no reason to do it, in fact. Only a very suspicious and circuitous mind could push a man to do so, a mind just like that of Mayweather, of the insidious and wary serpent that lurked within him and that had driven him to do it, following who knows which tortuous instinct born in him, after the unexpected and amazing raid that had led to the rescue of the Vulcan bitch.

And, once again, as in Tucker's curriculum, he hadn't been able to retrieve any really useful information. However something, after all, there was. There were no recorded images, but it was possible to hear, even if far from clearly, two voices, patently angry, altered. The voices of Tucker and Phlox. Then, everything was overwhelmed by the roar of the explosion. But before... just a few moments before ...

He was not sure what it was. A thrill, a reverb, a sound-not-sound, in the devices. He had never heard it before. Of course, it could be nothing more than an artefact, but...

And, also, just before, a sudden increase in energy. Sure, the explosion. But it was not there yet. Perhaps its prodrome? But the increase of energy did not seem limited to the enclosed space of the room in which Tucker and Phlox were; indeed, if it was true what that pretty little tart who was Hess had said, _by an_ _appropriate_ charge - Mayweather smiled graciously to himself: _useful and pleasurable being the powerful and "potentially helpful" lover of the Empress _- and without being set apart of anything that might raise her suspicions, that increase in energy seemed to come from outside, from outer space.

_Exactly as the sudden increase in energy that the detection systems had picked up just some moments before it happened the unexpected raid that had led to the rescue of T'Pol._

The engineering department had worked hard to identify the causes of that increase of energy and the result looked hard to believe: it was suggested that something not detectable in the spectrum of visible light had appeared in the vicinity of Vulcan, where the ceremony of death which had that Vulcan sow as the protagonist was taking place.

And just after that abrupt increase of energy, _also it coming from outside, from outer space_, became clearly noticeable ... there was a thrill - _a reverb, a sound-not-sound_ - never recorded before, or rather, not previously noticed by anyone else - by no one else except him - quite similar to what he had detected in the recordings of the last moments of Tucker and of Phlox.

He had not talked about this with his imperial lover, he abhorred and feared the flustered and thoughtless reactions the uterine Empress could have, even in all her calculated coldness. That stupid whore would put to work, without a second thought, the entire scientific staff with the result of unnecessarily putting all in alarm and foolishly diverting towards fruitless intents of personalistic revenge and, very likely, without any useful outcome, every available resource from the pursuit of what was to be their true purpose, namely the reorganization of the imperial forces and the intensive use - after a suitable and intense study of the new technologies which they had come into possession - of the new weapons and new knowledge that fate had gracefully put at their disposal, in order to quell the rebellion and tighten the grip of their recent power. There was not only to put down the revolt, for the devil! It was also necessary to worry to silence the inevitable backlashes that the forces remained loyal to the deposed Emperor, although practically impotent, were striving to deliver. And there was also to think that the dethroned Emperor was still living, though - which was very disturbing - he too had disappeared. How evaporated. It was not known where.

However and at any rate, in order to put quiet his visceral and august lover and take her mind away from the obsessive thought of vengeance, Mayweather had said to her that at the right time he believed it would be possible to trace the attackers, to go up to them. And, in fact, in the memory of the recordings of the moments of the incursion there were some tracks: actually there were traces of something, seemingly something that was approaching and then, after the raid's end, moving away, or better, losing far away. The problem was that those tracks had vanished into thin air, and trying to follow them, it would not have led to anything. Mayweather's own expertise, even if limited, and above all the interested but fruitful acquaintances of him suggested to him that things were in these terms. And, this time only his own expertise about Her Sublime Magnanimity the Empress, that it was better that she, at least for the moment, didn't know it.

But - and here was the point - those tracks, or - even more - the likeness of what he had observed in the records of the final moments of life of Tucker and Phlox with what could be observed in the records relating to the incursion meant something.

Meant that there was something that connected the two events.

Meant that something - someone – could have intervened during the _supposed_ last moments of life of that bastard engineer, and that it wasn't airy-fairy that this something or this someone could be the same one who had intervened in the case of the raid.

_Meant that - perhaps - Tucker was not dead_. That someone had stolen him from his fate; perhaps - Mayweather could not fully realize why in him such an idea was born, but instinctively, and his instincts had never cheated him, he felt to be in the true - perhaps even that Tucker himself could have orchestrated the mise en scene of his death, and then also engineered the show of T'Pol's rescue.

Certainly, about the second event, assuming that Tucker was alive and in a position to go to the rescue of T'Pol, all could go plainly, so to say, whereas it was very hardly explicable how and why – _**how and why**_ – Tucker should have set such a pretence, making everyone believing that he was dead when he was still alive.

_Excepting that… _

The brain of Mayweather was working, was mulling over and revising once again what he already had so often brooded and reworked and whose conclusions were always the same.

… _Excepting that Tucker hadn't thought that the time had come for him to disappear, because of something, in order to __**do**__ something, and he could count on someone's help - someone belonging to his foggy past_ - _so as he could disappear, so as he could do this something._

The thoughts followed each other, relentless, in the mind of Mayweather.

_Tucker's foggy past…_

What would have happened - what would happen to him, Tucker - if someone had wanted to put his hand to his resume? If someone had wanted to know more closely the lone chief engineer of _Enterprise_? The times, things had changed, in the riotous days that had preceded the "death" of Tucker. Archer had come and Archer was not a man to trust to appearances, and in any case, he would not risk that anyone, not even his own mother, could jeopardize his newly acquired leadership. The _forever late lamented_ Archer would have wanted to know everything about everyone, including, _especially_ including, the man who, more or less openly, was the lover of the Vulcan whore who had dared rebel and attempted to undermine his new power. Going further, if indeed Tucker was the unknown shark Mayweather suspected he was, he should most likely have the instinct of the shark; it was not impossible that he had sniffed out that Hoshi – _that he, Mayweather_ - might eventually take power, with the _condescending_ consent of that _easygoing_ man who had been the defunct Archer. So, hard times would come for the dear Engineer: if the Empress hated T'Pol with all her forces, just imagine what she could do to Tucker, the lover of the loathed Vulcan female, a lover, for more, who had dared refuse the attention of Her Imperial Highness, even if she, at that time, hadn't yet become the Empress Hoshi Sato the First.

The shark would no longer have been able to swim unnoticed and undisturbed underwater to bite who knows what prey. So, better disappearing, better moving away in deepest waters, and, from there, at the appropriate time, with the help of the cited someone, doing the something that the ferocious lord of the sea had intended to do, and that the new circumstances had prevented him from doing, because the stirring of the shallow water where he had wandered so far could risk to shed light on his threatening shape.

But this time, no longer concentric circles around the prey, by approaching slowly. This time, a very fast and unpredictable running, slicing through the water like a torpedo, to bite the unaware prey, and then getting away soon after._To prepare__ a__ new__,__ unexpected assault__._

Mayweather stared intently at the screen.

On it, it was unfolding the final act.

In his mind, it was unfolding the final scene of the movie of his thoughts.

_*The Empire is going to win, totally, and is about to give visual demonstration of its strength, live."_

It had come to the final bars.

_*The Empire is not vincible, in an open and frontal war, now less than before, given the new weapons and new technologies in its possession.*_

Afterward there would no longer be time nor way to hold back the imperial tide…

_*But there could be other ways to tackle the Empire, to counter it.*_

… to perturb the triumph of the Human Empire…

_*If out there, somewhere, there is really someone in ambush, an unknown enemy, possibly even headed by "somebody" who knows Humans well, their strengths and their weaknesses, even on the psychological side...*_

… to diminish, to blur its victory…

_*… "somebody" who, for unclear reasons, maybe for reasons rooted in his cloudy past, has decided to break down the Empire and has understood that there was need of different strategy than that one adopted by the rebels…*_

… to instil in the breeds subject to Empire some shadow of doubt on the reality of its resistless strength…

_*…"somebody" who is acting like does the shark, that turns around its prey, unnerving it, until, unexpected, swoops down upon it, bites it, then withdraws, for going back to sink its tusks into it another time, then another, and another, until the prey loses all its vital blood…*_

… to turn the Empire's ultimate victory into the seed of a possible future defeat.

_*…what better opportunity than this one which is being offered now? If you can not beat your adversary, unnerve him, dispirit him, weary him. Wear down him. By dealing well calibrated blows, in the more opportune moment, taking advantage of being unknown and hidden, making sure that the blows are clearly visible everywhere, so as to weaken the image of your enemy in front of the whole world and, at the same time, instilling in him a sense of insecurity and frustration.*_

Mayweather was still staring at the screen and more, much more, within himself.

Strangely, now, just now, he understood fully that he was right. His mind was clear, he was not mistaken. He had realized totally, at last.

What could have happened if, suddenly, unexpectedly, "somebody" had cracked, with a fast and effective action, that image of irresistible force that the Empire was about to give? And without even dreaming of to go down in open field, but by resorting once more to a well-organized and unstoppable raid, so as to show in this way that the Empire was not invincible? That there was someone capable of opposing it? And victoriously? And this, every time that he had wanted to do it?

What could have happened if a breed, strong enough and organized, rich in a glorious past, as it could be - for example - the Vulcans, had regained its pride? If it had found a guide, a guide _worthy_, able to enliven this pride, to arouse in it the desire, the longing for its lost freedom?

_A guide as T'Pol could be?_

What could have happened if somebody, _"somebody" rightly or wrongly very close to her_, had given her the means to put herself up as such? To act as such?

What could have happened if the warrior princess, the tiger with the guise of the most beautiful woman, who had stunned the universe with her indomitable courage, with her adamantine fierceness, had been able to count on "somebody", _a shark in a human appearance_, lurking in the abysses?

Mayweather's eyes darted on the consoles of the monitoring systems, almost waiting for, rather than fearing that they could detect a sudden burst of energy out there, somewhere, and soon after, a strange thrill.

* * *

It was... yes, it was like an orgasm, or rather like the expectation of an orgasm.

She... she knew very well what this meant; She was... very experienced with this. She would never have believed, before, that the pleasure of power could be so similar to the pleasure of love. But it was so. It was overwhelming and irresistible, in the same way.

That waiting, that expectation, was like the expectation of an orgasm, that you know it is coming, that is just to get there and that you know that when it will arrive will make you melt with pleasure. It was the expectation that everything was about to be accomplished, that her power would finally be consecrated by the universal vision of the bloodbath in which the last followers of the rebellion were to be immersed. Yes, that expectation was like the waiting for an orgasm that you know that can not but be achieved, and like such kind of waiting, thus the expectation that she was living before the screen on which it flowed the images of death and destruction that her power, her strength, her majesty had established having to be inflicted, it was sweet and together overwhelming, as to be hard to be dissimulated under the cold unconcern she, being the Empress, should show.

The Empress. She was the Empress, to whom anything is possible, who everything can do, whom not even God can judge; above good and evil; source in herself of all good and all evil.

She, just she, the first woman to have thought of being able to take such a role, and who this role had taken.

A shadow thickened in the mind of Hoshi Sato the First, Empress of the Human Empire.

She struggled against it.

Yes, she was the Empress and she was this in grace of herself.

Behind her, she felt the great form of the one whom people called, although in an undertone, – she had heard this raillery! - the _redoubtable little-big paramour_; it was unknown if to mock cautiously him… or her!

They would have to paid dearly for this banter, at another time and place. At a different time and place.

_Her paramour. Travis Mayweather. And with that appellative: little-big. And… redoubtable. _

He… he was her plaything, only that. Only that! And… and he had nothing to do with what she was. No.

She had been the one who had led her to be what she had become, certainly not him!

Hers. Hers! The idea of taking power... had been hers, for the devil! Hers. Her muscular lover had nothing to do with it! Nothing! She was the maker of her own destiny. She only, only she!

He was nothing but her vassal, her faithful servant. Neither little nor big. And if there was anyone who should be feared, it was her, not him, for the hell!

Travis was her flunkey, yes. Her _helpfu_l flunkey.

Certainly. Helpful. Useful, very useful. Very good.

Full of useful and good ideas, useful and good tips, useful and good advice.

Really useful and good in planning action strategies.

_And amazingly, superbly ..._

The Empress has almost let slip a sigh.

_... wonderfully good in bed._

But the power was hers!

HERS!

And _**she**_ had taken hold of it.

Mayweather... he had done nothing but give shape to her own ideas when ... when, with his fluty voice by snake, had suggested that perhaps it was possible to take advantage of the foolishness of Archer, that arrogant jerk who believed he was able to use her - her! The great Hoshi! - for his own pleasure without having to pay the price.

Imbecile! How could he have thought that idiot, that ... that gorilla, yes, that gorilla all muscle and inane ambition, that, since he had had the unexpected good fortune of having in his hands the amazing opportunity to acquire the supreme power, she could have left this opportunity in his fist, continuing to be nothing more than his meek pleasure-bitch?

If at least he had been good in bed, dammit! At least that!

Blowing away that moron gorilla had been the easiest thing - and most beautiful and satisfactory thing - of the world, and Travis had had nothing to do with such a thing! NOTHING! His ingratiating words had been nothing but the reflex of her thoughts, of her ideas.

Hers it had been, the idea, hers it had been, the move.

_And hers had to be the power._

Her August Highness, Hoshi Sato, the first woman seating on the throne of the human empire, settled herself more comfortably in her command chair, in front of the screen where the images were running testifying her power - absolute - and her strength - immeasurable. She was enjoying, in full, this power and strength. Soon all the forces that had deluded themselves to be able to counteract the Empire - which meant _**her**_ - would be destroyed, drowned in their own blood, and the few survivors would have tasted her dreadful justice. The justice of the Empress Hoshi Sato.

Soon, nothing and no one would be able any longer to interpose between her and absolute power.

_Nothing and no one._

The Empress sighed, with uneasy awareness, to herself.

_No one except Travis_.

Travis Mayweather, her lover and her right-hand man. And, in truth, far more than that.

The mind of the Empress focused on him. His presence was strong, behind her. She could felt it. It was… cumbersome.

He… Travis per se… was cumbersome.

Before, no. But now, it was so.

_Now._

Strange, but after all maybe not too long now, just at these moments, just a bit before she will become definitely and without appeal the absolute and undisputed mistress of all things and of all creatures under the human heel and perhaps just because of this, she found herself thinking, clearly and plainly for the first time, that, from now on, something should change.

There was .. there was no longer room in that world, the world that was now hers, for Travis Mayweather.

He had been an excellent counsellor, as well as a very hot and satisfying lover, this was undeniable, but now it was time for her to get rid of the one who, in all respects, had become her éminence grise and who could overshadow her power. She could not - should not - share her power with anyone, even minimally.

_She was the Empress Hoshi Sato the First, who had domain over all, she and she alone._

Though ...

Her sharp eyes and cold didn't diverge from the screen, but they were looking at other things besides those that were visible on it.

Though ... how could she do it?

The loneliness of power, of the power that was now hers, the power of the Empire, of the world in which all of them were born and lived, was also her real and… _human_… loneliness. She was alone, in the truest sense of the term, and without Travis... she would be even more alone and would also be highly vulnerable. If before she had been surrounded by suspicion and enmity, as a consequence of the way of being of the Empire and of her own way of being per se, now, at the very least, mistrust and enmity would be turned - had already de facto been turned - into guerrilla, more or less evident, and her power was still too recent for having been consolidated enough to make her unassailable. Only Mayweather was really at her side, even if for very personal and selfish reasons. She was not a little silly woman, far from it; she was a very smart and skilled woman, even before being the Empress; she knew that Travis Mayweather was a treacherous snake, willing to support her with the only purpose to use, in the shadows and under the shelter of her shield, the power that was up to her. She had understood, at the end, what he really was, a serpent by the powerful loins and twisted mind, devoid of the courage and strength to take the open field. He had used her... in all senses.

This was burning, infinitely. She was the one wont to manipulate men, and instead, this time, a man had manipulated her.

But, in spite of this abasing realization, there was one thing she couldn't nor should underestimate: even if in his sordid and ambiguous way, craven and cravenly interested, worthy of the snake that he was, Travis was at her side, her life was his life, now more than ever. By now, or by hook or by crook, they were inextricably linked to each other. He was tied to her to shine with reflected light, he not having the heart and boldness to dare shine by his own light; but she, on the other hand...

In this violent world and treacherous, it was impossible not to be able to count on someone by your side, even if only for reasons entirely personal and interested and this was even more true in her case, because power is tempting, and she was "new", so to speak. No one - and she knew it - was yet really willing to commit himself to her command, except by pure fear. Or rather, to say it all - the Empress virtually scowled within - except by the fear that Travis the snake knew very well how to silence even the slightest hint of impatience, by exploiting, by the serpent that he was, envies, desires, ambitions and lusts of each, and the skeletons in the closet that everyone had and of which he had great knowledge, true or boasted that it was; but even if such knowledge had been simply boasted, the skeletons existed, inevitably, and therefore ... caution, above all; this was everyone's first thought. By now as well as she had become aware of who Travis was, so the others were learning it. And nobody wanted to step on the snake's tail.

So, ultimately, the Empress had need of Travis Mayweather. Without him, on who would she have been able to rely? Or, rather, without him, how could she be able, alone, to defend herself from any possible or potential attack? She had opened the road, people knew, now, that it was not impossible to climb high, very high, just as she had done, even for people ... yes, even for people like her, without art or hand, without a real background, nothing else than mere improvisers, and of which the Empire, her ship itself, were full. There was nobody who, more or less consciously, was not ready to stab her, treacherously, in a real and metaphorical sense, if just had the opportunity been presented to do it. Certainly no woman: if before she was hated by women, for her ability to hook the males for her own purposes, now she was doubly hated, to the nth degree. Reviled. Viscerally, as only the fairer sex can do. No, certainly no woman and, least of all, no man. What man who was a true son of the Empire, would not have been happy to get rid of the female who had dared proclaim herself Empress? Such a fact was more than enough to stir up against her the vindictive resentment of every male crossing her way, and indeed if it had not been for the muscled and cunning serpent that was by her side ...

The Empress was watching the screen. The hour of triumph was approaching, and, just then, _exactly then_, her awareness of the reality of her position was getting perspicuous in her mind .

She could no longer deceive herself.

_She commanded, but because there was Travis._

_And it had not to be so._

She needed someone else and a someone else very special, a ... a lion, as well as her… paramour was a snake. She needed a lion, to drive out the snake.

And perhaps with a lion, she would also be willing to share power. With ... a true man.

Oh yeah, a man. Proud and strong, like a lion, as it should be a true man. A man worthy of the Empire; and worthy to stand beside her. A man capable of fighting, openly, without hiding in the shadows, or maybe even acting so, covertly, but in any case, not dastardly, not meanly, not fraudulently, without resorting to the use of the devious and disloyal weapon of the poison of the snake, but able when necessary to use fangs and claws. But where was such a man? Who could boast of such a name? Who could be described as 'a man'? A real man, tough and strong and smart, able to stand comparison with her, so that she could really want him next to her? And able to stand comparison with Travis... in bed?

At that point, one might say inevitably, to the mind of the Empress it occurred again, inexorably, a name: that name.

Tucker.

_Tucker damnit!_

She had desired him.

Perhaps for the only time in her life, she had desired a man simply because she wished it.

Why? She did not know and could not understand. She did not understand what had attracted her in that face devastated, and yet ... and yet still beautiful. Tough.

Strong.

A face that seemed…

She did not understand why, every time that she had found herself watching closely that face, it had seemed to her to see behind those lips perpetually distorted in a sarcastic grin the fangs of a lion, or... - An image, vivid and distinct, had suddenly painted in her head - … or, even more, the sharp and deadly teeth of a shark.

No, she did not understand why she had perceived Tucker emanate an impression such as that, as well as she did not understand what she had seen, what she had felt, such attractiveness, behind those brusque and unfriendly manners. Behind that appearance...

Yes. Appearance.

She had perceived it. There was something hidden behind that eye cold and derisive, in that ... in that solitude, yes, because Tucker was ... _had been_ ... a man alone.

Apparently he had shared the life of the ship with the others, but in reality ... she had noticed it ... no one could really claim to know him, to know something about him, something that went beyond... the appearance.

Only ... only a woman, probably, knew very much of him.

A Vulcan woman.

That Vulcan woman!

Damn bitch! She, a woman of Tucker's own race, not belonging to an inferior breed as that lurid strumpet… she, the future Empress, had wanted Tucker. She had openly offered herself to him. And he ... he had refused!

But how was this possible? How? No true man born in the Empire, would have dreamed to disdain a woman! A beautiful and desirable woman. Like her! But Tucker had done it. Tucker then was not a man? But the squeals that Vulcan slut had let escape during that strange interlude in which Tucker and she had virtually disappeared from circulation, with no credible explanation... those shrieks that were told having been heard out of her room, they said exactly the opposite. Eh sure, because all world knew that Tucker was in her room at that time, and all world had laughed uproariously at the idea that a Vulcan female - _that_ haughty and supercilious Vulcan female, always quick to repel any advances with the cold blade of her disdainful logic - had succumbed to the wishes of a human male. _That_ human male, disfigured and, in the eyes of other men, as abhorrent as she was beautiful and appetizing.

But .. Tucker had refused her, Hoshi. So what? Those two had abandoned themselves to the good time ... why, in reality? It had been the cravings of Tucker or the wishes of that slut of Vulcan? Or, indeed, it had not been mere carnal lust? Was it possible - _was it really possible_ - that Tucker, a male son of the Empire, had fallen prey of a Vulcan semi-slave? Of her charms? Of her blandishments? To the point ... to the point to bind himself to her and turn down other… offers? And, on the other hand, why the hell would that bitch have wanted him? Just him?

What did this mean?

The hatred, resentment, desire for revenge smouldering in the black heart of the Empress that, previously, the pressing of events and, now, the foretaste of her imminent victory had confined in the silty oblivion of the deepest shadows of her brain, suddenly exploded with virulence within her. She had to force herself not to show it, to avoid gritting her teeth with ferocious spitefulness.

What did all this mean? And who gives a shit? The fact - the one that really mattered - was that that damn tart not only was a traitor, a conspirator, a treacherous bitch; not only had ridiculed her by overcoming her in an open fight. She had also wolfed down the man she, the Empress, wanted. And she had conquered him to the point that not only that miscreated had disdained her, the Empress – _the Empress, damnit!_ -, but he had also bent over backwards to save that Vulcan whore from the just vengeance that she - She, she, she! Her Majesty Hoshi Sato the First! - had prepared for her!

The Empress almost jumped on her command chair.

But what the hell...? She suddenly realized that she had unconsciously thought of Tucker assuming that it had been just him who saved that bitch. But he was dead, disappeared, gone. She had lost herself countless times behind what, in all respects, looked as an unsolvable enigma, without ever managing to get a plausible explanation: there was nothing and nobody in the universe who might want to save that slut and… to rub out Reed that way. Nothing and nobody except Tucker. But Tucker had decided to fly to a better world, so this was impossible. And then, even if absurdly he were still alive, by what means would he have been able to organize that perfect rescue operation? With the help of whom?

And yet ...

And if she _- her subconscious_ - had not deceived itself? The unconscious often has insights that the conscious mind has not, linked as it is to the necessity of not nebulous reasonings, but the intuition in itself is often a higher form of reasoning, made of deeper and indefinable connections, and nevertheless no less true, indeed not infrequently shrewder, keener, more insightful, someway, than the conscious reasonings.

Of course, the Empress Hoshi Sato was unable to conduct such deep elucubrations, not even to conceive them from afar. As much as she could be smart and not without some culture, this was not bread for her teeth. However, one thing she could realize: if ... if her subconscious had understood - had guessed - something that her conscious mind could neither understand nor rationalize?

_In other words… if Tucker had been alive? _

Taking for not absurd this absurd idea, there was nothing absurd to go on ahead along the road of absurdity; so it would not be more absurd than the absurdity that Tucker was still alive the fact that he could have re-emerged from the shadows that had swallowed him up with someone at his side, someone willing to help him. And, on the other hand, there was someone - _there had been someone_ - who had taken part in the rescue expedition, people unknown and never seen before. Therefore, there was actually someone – _unknown and never seen before_ - who plotted against the Empire and who was not part of the ranks of the rebels.

_The absurdly resurrected Tucker, could he have anything to do with this someone?_

Absurd. All absurd!

The Empress lowered her eyelids quickly, lifting them immediately after, all in a flash, without appearing to.

Absurd.

But ...

She went back to what she had just thought about Tucker, to the sensation, strong and steady, she had always felt in front of him, a sensation that perhaps contributed to his charm, undoubted. The fascination of the dark. There was something in him, something dark, exactly that. Hidden. Unknown.

To the point to make possible the impossible? Real the absurd?

The Empress continued to follow what was going on the screen simultaneously with the course of her thoughts.

Thoughts ... pleasurable. Gently ... wickedly nice.

Intuition is the weapon of women, the most powerful. What men call women's irrationality is what makes women subtly strong. It is not irrationality: it is the ability to believe in something that is beyond the supposed and not infrequently fruitless rationality of the male.

Sometimes believing without wondering why, is worth more than getting lost in the vain search for a rational explanation. Women are often able to do it more than men, and therefore often they arrive where men are not able to get; and if there was anything that could be said of the Empress, it was that she was definitely a woman, perhaps not the kind of woman that a man could trust, but, as to being a woman in the body, in the soul, in the mind ... well, about this there could be no doubt.

The_ famous_ female intuition ...

Yeah, that.

_**Her**_ female intuition. Perhaps ... it was worthy to follow it.

And, in this case ... Tucker was alive, and he had saved T'Pol.

So ... - The Empress could not help but smile wickedly to herself - ... so, finding her, it meant finding him. And... - the secret evil smile became most marked - ... and, in such eventuality, to the sublime opportunity to take revenge atrociously on that Vulcan bitch, it would be added to the possibility to appropriate him.

No revenge on him, no. Perhaps her… _paramour_ would not be able to understand - another hidden malignant smile - at least initially. But thereafter ... yes, thereafter for sure. The best revenge on Tucker, fraught with important consequences and _pleasant_, would be to force him to yield to her, under the threat of inflicting on his Vulcan whore the worst sufferings of the universe if he had not agreed to be beside her… and inside her. It was clear, if she had to follow to the end her intuition, that between those two there should be a link, perhaps unwitting, - who knows? - such as to make him vulnerable - and pliable - in the face of the possible sufferings that whore could suffer. If he came out of the shadows, risking much, very much, - his life and perhaps something even more important to him - only to save that contemptible strumpet, he couldn't not bend in front of the tortures that she, Hoshi Sato the Empress, would inflicted on her ... her rival. Yes, her rival.

Then ... well, she would be well able to make him forget that frigid Vulcan. Her art of love would be irresistible, and he could not help but get caught in the snare of pleasure that she would weave around him. Of this she felt sure. In that snare, in that web, he would find peace (who knows why this idea dawned sudden and unexpected in the mind of the Empress.). In the heat of this mesh she would manage to make him forget everything else and he would become her Emperor.

Yes, she would be his Empress and him her Emperor.

With him, it would be nice to share power, taking refuge, safe, in his strength.

The Empress was almost oblivious of the events that the screen was showing: too beautiful, too, what her intuition was suggesting and showing; too captivating and engaging the fantastic images of the possible future that were being piled in her mind. Here it is, here them together, she and her lion: they are watching, close to one another, that Vulcan whore as she is pleading for mercy, naked, flayed alive, in a blazing tub. She implores him: _Help me,__ save__ me!_ And he looks at her with mockery and contempt. And eagerly kisses her, the Empress, while the tart of Vulcan kicks the bucket between gasps of unspeakable agony and of disappointed dejection.

The Empress suddenly roused herself from her fancies. What the heck! What was happening to her? It was certainly not the moment to indulge in such nonsense!

But... all in all what her intuition was suggesting to her was not incoherent. After all it was true that only Tucker could have been interested in saving T'Pol and that only he could have feed the desire to inflict such a punishment on Reed, and it was equally true that there had been people belonging to a race never seen before, who had gathered for the rescue of that whore, in the context of a veritable military operation and well orchestrated. And it was true, she was certain, that there was something mysterious in Tucker, perhaps such to be able to explain the unexplainable. Consequently ... well, as that Vulcan bitch would say, if there are no logical answers, then it is logical to resort to illogical responses.

_Apparently _illogical.

Tucker was _apparently_ dead? And yet _apparently_, only he, a dead man, could have been involved in the rescue of T'Pol? Have been its inspirer?

Then one had to think that appearances were deceptive and under those misleading appearances there was the true reality.

Moreover what is reality if not what appears to our senses? But our senses, our mind, our view, very often deceive us. Do not be fooled by appearances. We must sometimes look beyond, follow our intuition, look at what lies beneath appearances.

And so ...

The Empress thought back to what Travis had told her: the expedition that had led to the rescue of T'Pol had left traces. She had consented to his suggestion to postpone the issue of tracing the rescuers and after that the rebellion had been completely suppressed. In effect this had been a priority, the rest could wait. Furthermore, as her smart and wise mate-snake had pointed out, now they - their Imperial forces - were on the alert, surveillance had been greatly intensified, not even a needle could have pass through the barrier which surrounded her and him, and the fact itself that it had been a commando action implied that the unknown enemy did not have, very likely, forces enough to go down into open field against the Empire. Indeed, the facts had proved right the astute serpent. Nothing had longer happened.

But now, the revolt was virtually over, and there would be other priorities, for example - _above all_ - tracking down the perpetrators of the rescue raid: no potential threat had to be ignored or neglected, so it would be appropriate and necessary to track down the unknown enemies, whoever they were and wherever they were, which implied that, when these had been found and detained, if what she had seen under the fallacy of appearances was true, she not only could put her clutches back on T'Pol, she would have also been able to put them... on Tucker.

At that moment, provided that she wasn't deceiving herself - but her female intuition told her that she wasn't - she would be able to make the lion roar.

Openly, in the end. Not in the undefined darkness of what was concealed behind its ravaged snout.

And the lion would have torn to pieces the serpent.

The Empress pondered on this thought for an instant.

She blinked her eyelids unconsciously.

No. No lion. The _**shark**_ would have jumped out of the dark water, from which just its threatening fin poked darkly out, difficult, almost impossible to be spotted by those who didn't know how to look beneath appearances.

Appearances.

This word rang loud in the mind of the Empress.

_Appearances._

She looked at the screen. Intently. Pensively. She stared at the images that appeared on it, at the death and blood flowing down there, on the planet, and that her will had provoked.

She looked at what the Empire would be, under her and under the snake beside her.

She looked at the future expected for the Empire, for those who would think to rebel against it; at the future itself of the Empire, the future that had been build on its past, that she had inherited and that she, being who she was - a... a serpent she too, an adder nourished by the gory muck of the Empire, not different, in last analysis, from what her paramour-snake was - wanted it to be.

And… she looked at the future that maybe, _most likely_, one day could be expected also for her.

Alone. Only with her treacherous and cowardly serpent.

A future that it wasn't easy to think could be caused to her just by him in person, by his own hand, if he had the opportunity, if he had thought he could do so with impunity, if he had thought he could lean on a viper more viper than her. The slippery and untrustworthy serpent!

She…. She needed…

She needed the shark! Yes, the shark.

The deadly, feracious, dire shark.

_The shark!_

The shark in human appearance, that would have leapt out at the surface, would have snapped at the serpent with its murderous teeth and rending, would have devoured it and would have kept her – _and __**her**__ Empire_ - safe from gorillas, wolves and jackals.

_Possibly even from the venomous and bloodthirsty adder that nestled inside her._

And from any other savage beast and ferocious that could be lurking under human or nonhuman appearances.

* * *

**End of chapter seven.**

**TBC**

_Yes, my dear friends and gentle readers, who have generously been willing to follow me and the actors of this dark story so far; really I think that our beloved and kind Empress is profoundly right. One should be leery of appearances._

_Well, if you, my friends, still want to go with me, you will be able to touch with your hand how much truly appearances can be deceiving._


	8. Chapter 8 Murkiness

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Eight**

_**MURKINESS**_

* * *

_A/N_

_Be careful, my friends, be careful, please. Things rush. And don't seem to go at all well. No, for nothing._

_In fact, it was not easy for me to tell you what happens in this chapter, and, I believe, not even for my dear **Linda**, my wonderful Beta, it must have been pleasant to edit it with light heart. Thank you, my friend. Thank you very much. Doubly thanks._

* * *

**The Empire's Destiny**

**Chapter Eight**

_**MURKINESS**_

Phlox roused himself. Something was going on. T'Pol seemed almost to have stopped breathing and appeared spasmodically tense. She opened her eyes suddenly. The doctor stood up, equally suddenly, equally or even more tense, if possible, dreadfully worried, dreadfully uncertain. He rushed to the Vulcan. She was looking at, yes, the doctor had no doubt. She was observing, even while sleeping, just to call it so. And was holding her breath. She wasn't awake, but she was watching. Was peering at something. Attentive, alert, to the breaking point.

* * *

Tucker was looking around, attentive, alert, to the breaking point. One by one he and his few men had sidled into the temple, inside the large nave, gliding like disembodied shadows between the leaves of the huge portal. Without need of any order, they had cowered in the shade, almost without breathing, without making any noise, and had managed not to get noticed by any of Hayes's men. They had one advantage over them, a faint but real advantage, and had to capitalize on it to the most: they knew that the others were there and consequently could see and recognize them, even if hidden between the columns. Those others did not know anything about them, did not suspect that there might be other shadows, hidden in the shade, because the sentry Hayes had placed on guard, had not been able accomplish his task (for the truth would never be able to perform any task) and because the silence and the swiftness of the action of Tucker and his men had been such that they had slipped through those others, as shadows through the shadows and, you know, the shadows are all equal to each other. How does a shadow think that another shadow is not the shadow that he believes that it should be, if the fact of being a shadow makes it impossible to recognize what or who the other shadow is, and if there is no shadow of suspicion that there can be different kinds of shadows?

But... the Lirpa. This had to be well hidden, Tucker was well aware of that. He himself had to stay concealed very well, so no one would notice that there was a Captain of the Elite Guard in the temple: he didn't know if there were a Captain as part of the expedition corps of Hayes, but if by chance there had been, someone could realize that the Captains were two.

Therefore, Tucker was standing behind a pillar, well set back, behind all the others, with the Lirpa against his body. And he was watching. Was peering out. Attentive, alert, to the breaking point.

* * *

The snake senses of Mayweather allowed him to notice immediately the swift glance that the Ensign, placed directly by him at the monitor of the external energy sounder, had thrown sideways at him.

The man was one of his creatures, he answered only to him and knew that only to him, to Mayweather, he had to report. The rest had not the slightest importance for the young Ensign. None, and less than less it had importance to ask himself questions, of any kind. He had merely to obey to Mayweather, thus ...he would live long enough, perhaps long enough to earn some reward. Perhaps… long enough to find out, one day, something useful to reverse the situation and to make Mayweather shake just like now Mayweather was making _him_ shake. But, for now, things were so. Mayweather knew things about him that made that snake in livery his master.

Therefore, when the Ensign realized what was happening, which was exactly what the powerful "Prince Consort" had said might occur, he turned a stealth look towards his owner, quickly and covertly. He knew that this one would have immediately realized his gesture. He did not know how his master was able to do it, but he knew that Mayweather was always aware of everything, noticed everything. Before anyone else. Mayweather was a dangerous and deadly serpent, always attentive and alert, to the breaking point.

Mayweather, surreptitiously, looked at the Ensign. He knew what that quick and fleeting nod from his man was. He peered at the man's console.

It had happened: a sudden burst of energy, outdoors, away, not too much, but enough to think that it had happened a little while ago. A time ... enough. And, subsequently, a sort of thrill, strange, unknown. But if that thrill meant what Mayweather thought, considering the distance that separated the Flagship from where they were to the apparent point of origin of the burst of energy and considering that the elapsed time was, according to his quick calculations, just enough, in this case, at that very moment, down yonder, on the planet in flames, into the city under attack and in ruins, someone - _someone_, a human shark, perhaps - was about to do something.

Just at that moment

Mayweather, still attentive, alert, to the breaking point, bent his head to the Empress, with all due respect.

And, with all due respect, whispered to her a few words.

* * *

Here's the door. Beyond it, the nave of the Temple and, beyond the nave, the outside world, the city in flames and prey of the imperial forces. But, perhaps, even a possible salvation. Or, more likely, an almost certain death, but in any case, not the death of a rat from which they had managed to escape. And then ... never despair. He was Harrad-Sar. It was death to be afraid of him, not him of death.

Harrad-Sar turned briefly toward the shadow of a Vulcan female who was behind him, panting, bruised, her eyes wide open, forgetful of all her Vulcan pomposity, with her hand glued to his.

He nodded to her, trying to be reassuring. She answered with a quick nod in her turn, in a pitiful attempt to appear calm and sure.

Foolishly and inanely prideful woman! But that was okay. Harrad-Sar knew that she was ready. Scared, yes. On the verge of hysterical tears, if she hadn't been a Vulcan. But she wouldn't have done it, or at least not at that time, and surely not if anyone could see her surrendering to crying.

She was ready.

And strong.

Much stronger than many so-called strong men who Harrad-Sar had known in his life of ruthless pirate raider, first, and of fierce rebel, later.

She would not disappoint him.

He nodded again, as if to make her realize that he had understood everything. Then he turned toward the door and raised his hand to push it.

To open it.

Suddenly, he stopped.

* * *

*_Come on, damn man! Come on Harrad-Sar, come ahead! I know you're there! Come off, damned Orion. Open that door. Show off your disgusting face. Show to me, to your "friend" Hayes, what you're made of. Make me the undisputed warlord of the Human Empire! _*

* * *

*_Come on, damn man! Come on Harrad-Sar, come ahead! I know you're there! Come off, damned Orion. Open that door. Show off your piratical face. Give me, to your "friend" Tucker, the way to bring you out of all this. Make me continue to dream my impossible dream! _*

* * *

The Empress did not show the slightest sign of any change, her regal demeanour did not appear at all cracked.

But the snake to her side had spoken to her ear. "Let us draw near, let's go down. It is best to closely monitor what is happening."

The snake never spoke in vain.

The Empress spoke calmly and safely. "Let us draw near, let's go down. I want to closely monitor what is happening."

Said and done.

The orders of the Empress were always performed promptly and without delay.

She knew it.

Mayweather knew it.

The flagship went down, mightily, toward the surface of the planet in ruins.

* * *

Phlox did not know what to do. He was standing beside the bed where lay T'Pol. She was awake, and yet asleep. She was asleep, and yet awake. On her face the evident signs of a spasmodic tension. This would have been enough to destroy a Vulcan under normal conditions, let alone a Vulcan under the conditions of T'Pol.

The doctor fell on his knees beside the bed, in the throes of the most desperate of uncertainties.

* * *

There was something. He could feel it. The instinct had never deceived Harrad-Sar. But it made no sense. Everything was falling apart there. What should they do, there, the soldiers of the Empire, even more so in light of the fact that they had without doubt thought he was dead, buried inside of his Palace of Command?

And yet ...

However, the two of them could not stay there, behind that door. They had to enter the nave and exit the Temple, before also this would hurtle down on itself.

Harrad-Sar clenched his fists, unconsciously clutching violently also the little hand of T'Pau.

To hell! They could not stay there forever.

He pushed the door softly. It opened little by little in the dark quiet of the nave.

Harrad-Sar pushed out his head slowly and cautiously. Attentive, alert, to the breaking point.

* * *

*_There you are, damn motherfucker of an Orion! Yes, this way! Come to your daddy, my dearie. Come to your friend Hayes! _*

* * *

*_There you are, finally, damn plunderer of an Orion! Yes, this way! Now ... - Tucker clenched convulsively his Lirpa. - ...now, choose the time well, Tucker!_ *

* * *

T'Pol sat bolt upright in bed, in her waking sleep.

Phlox was practically about to burst into tears.

* * *

Harrad-Sar came forward, wary and suspicious. A weapon, any weapon, damn it! But he had nothing! Not even his whip, his most beloved whip, was in his hands, to reassure him, at least a little, to give him at least a little confidence, as much as such trust could be completely empty and useless.

He walked slowly up the nave, all his senses alert, T'Pau in tow.

Everything was quiet, all was silent, no one and nothing seemed to lurk.

Yet there was something. He sniffed the danger.

But there was nothing.

He advanced a few paces yet, without straying far too much from the door, which, in case something or someone had been truly in ambush and at one certain point had dashed upon them, could be the only way of escape, backwards, towards the stairwell whose steps they had just gone down steeply.

But there was nothing. Nothing.

Yet ...

Harrad-Sar couldn't manage to decide. They had to cross the aisle and reach the great access gateway to the temple, through whose half-closed leaves, the livid light leaked from the exterior, the light of the fires, like a blade of flame that beat down on the floor. They had to go out there and get into that light, outside, in the ruined world through which they should seek the most unlikely of ways of salvation.

But Harrad-Sar couldn't manage to decide.

He was reluctant to move away from that door. Once they were away from it, they would no longer have any chance of returning to the stairwell, to the insecure, and yet sole way-out that they would have had if really someone had broken an ambush that Harrad-Sar perceived, or, perhaps, more simply, feared.

Eh sure, because, really, he did not hear or see anything.

There was nothing.

Only semidarkness and silence.

Harrad-Sar inhaled sharply. _Enough. Let's go_. He made to move, decisively, towards the great portal of the Temple.

A resistance, not excessive, but determined, restrained him. A tightness to his hand.

T'Pau.

* * *

The air stirred with violence. A rumble, at first distant and then ever more closely, twanged it. A roar that quickly became deafening, and filled everything.

The imperial soldiers, standing next to the powerful war vehicles that encircled the city, in neat rows, raised their heads, astonished, unable to understand what was happening, why the mighty Imperial Flagship was passing over them, far from deep space that was its logical and real home.

They saw it hurtle across the sky, aloft, like a huge mortal bird, whose beating of wings almost threw them on the ground.

They saw it go towards the city, as if it would beat down on it, and then saw it start to wheel in wide circles above the burning buildings, lifting with its powerful riptide, clouds of dust and debris.

They saw it move all around and all along the town, over it, moving away and then approaching, rising high and then going down.

As if searching for something.

* * *

Harrad-Sar turned suddenly. He looked at the small Vulcan intently and intensely, without speaking, and yet dumbly asking forcibly.

T'Pau shook his hand again, her eyes fixed on his. "Smell. Human. And another smell, that I do not know. However, it has something familiar."

Harrad-Sar did not waste time on trivial matters. The nose of a Vulcan female is finer than a device searching odours. There were Humans, there, lurking. His instinct had not betrayed him. And if, along with the Humans, there was someone or something else, it mattered little.

The Orion snapped ahead. Pushing hard and impetuosity the Vulcan, he sprang toward the door through which the two of them had just passed. A few paces separated them from it, fortunately. And, fortunately, his instinct had prevented him from straying too far from it. Maybe ... perhaps they could succeed. Yes, maybe they could.

"Fire. Before them. Bar to them the way. And remember that I want them alive."

Strident blades and deadly of light flashed in the dark, right in front of them, between them and the door, blocking their way, just like the imperious voice that had risen in the darkness had commanded, a voice Harrad-Sar had already heard, a rough voice and tough, that he knew well.

The two, the Orion man and the Vulcan female, halted abruptly and looked around, breathing hard and harsh, still hand in hand.

Shadows detached themselves from the shade, slipping out from the shadows of the columns and revealing themselves for what they were. They encircled the two while at the same time putting themselves between the fugitives and the door.

With anger and regret, Harrad-Sar contemplated his end, his failure.

His end, the end he had thought to deceive, the end of all hope. For him, for the rebellion. And for T'Pau.

A shadow stepped forward. It did not approach them much, and therefore they could not see its face through the visor of its war helmet. But for Harrad-Sar it was not hard to realize who it was.

The voice that had just barked its order rose again, sneering and derisively self-confident. The voice of Hayes. The voice of the shadow that was standing up, firmly, secure and mocking, in front of them.

"Well, well, well. What a windfall. In one fell swoop, the leader of the Rebellion, the highly venerable Harrad-Sar, the living legend, and another leader of the Rebels, I have reason to believe. A very peculiar leader, I must say. A Vulcan female, bloody hell, to talk like my unfortunate predecessor. Definitely a remarkable prey. A little run down, to be honest, but once cleaned up well, definitely appetizing. It is to believe."

Harrad-Sar could not hold himself back. "You do not ..."

Hayes's voice interrupted him. Very tough this time. Simply and solely tough. "Take them. And woe to you if you twist a single hair on them."

Harrad-Sar made a step forward, leaving the hand of T'Pau and interposing himself between her and the shadows before them. "Very good. I, as you see, am here." - Softly and calmly. - "Please, I am waiting."

Some shadows came forward, a little undecided to tell the truth. It was Harrad-Sar the one who stood in front of them. Battered, smashed, torn, bruised, wounded ... but still Harrad-Sar. Perhaps it was just an urban legend that he was able to break the neck of a man with only one of his big fingers, but it was not a legend, a fantasy story, what, just a few times before, they had seen him do. How could they take him without causing him any harm?

The weapons of the soldiers of the Elite Guard were not set to stun, but only to kill. This was well known. They were the emblem of the strength of the Empire, they weren't trained to spare the lives of the enemies of the Empire, they were trained to destroy them. And their General, Hayes, who never spoke in vain, had just told them that he wouldn't tolerate any wound on the Orion and on the Vulcan. So how could they force the Orion to surrender to them? Threatening him with their phasers surely would not have helped, it was necessary to take him and the Vulcan with him by bare hands, and this... well, this did not seem like a very easy task, and, there was to swear, not even… pleasant, as much as they were many and he one only man. Without forgetting the Vulcan, in addition.

Vulcans are strong. Of course, the physical strength of the Vulcans was not a problem for the soldiers of the Elite Guard, they knew how to fight it. But ... well… but that Vulcan female... She was small, certainly, looked scared, too, and very down-at-heel, to be honest. However, she had been able to follow Harrad-Sar in his mad flight, and had come out alive from all that, and now she was there, along with him. And... and if she had been made of the same stuff of that other Vulcan female? That T'Pol, who was now gone, no one knows where, but whom all universe had seen fight like a furious tiger in that cage of horror where she had been locked up? That cage that should have marked her ignominious end, and that instead had consecrated her indomitable strength?

Damn it! Being Elite Guard soldiers and being, moreover, under the direct orders of General Hayes, had its advantages, it was undeniable. But sometimes this could be pretty damn dangerous. For what you had to deal with, and for what you could receive on the part of the General in question, if you had not been able to execute his orders. Eh sure. Because, if they were prevented, on that occasion, from using their deadly weapons to kill or to wound, it was not said that the General should not decide to use his own weapons against his men themselves, if these ones had not been able to run promptly and effectively his orders.

And the voice of the much-feared General rose, one more time, hard and threatening, giving substance to the secret thoughts and secret fears of those proud, strong, _poor_ Elite Guard soldiers who had the not much enviable fortune of being with Hayes when he had decided to enter the Temple. "So? Shall I remind you who you are and _**who am I**_?"

"Dead men."

No one had time or way to realize, to figure out who had spoken, to whom it belonged the voice, loud and plucky and impudent, which had risen to respond that way to the rhetorical question of Hayes.

No one.

Because, suddenly, all hell broke loose.

* * *

T'Pol jumped on the bed, and kneeled over it, spasmodically gripping its edges with her hands.

Phlox grunted and swallowed, his throat dry and harsh. Enough now. To hell with everything. He rose from the ground and grabbed the Vulcan by her shoulders .

He shook her. "T'Pol! Wake up!"

T'Pol did not react at all to the call of the doctor. Her hands gripped increasingly the bed and her eyes were wide open in frantic alert.

Yet she was sleeping!

"T'Pol! Damn Vulcan! **Wake up!** **WAKE UP, DAMN IT!**"

* * *

Without thinking, without delay and without hesitation, Harrad-Sar did what in his life of a marauder always hovering between life and death he had done so many times, managing to save the skin when the skin was now virtually lost. He acted instinctively, without wondering what was going on. He fell down, dragging with him the Vulcan, and covering her with his body, to protect her. And, about this, actually, a quick question and stunned crossed in a flash his brain: what the hell was happening to him? But the question disappeared as quickly as it had appeared.

There was something else at that time, and much more important.

He could clearly hear the blows and, with the corner of the eye, could perceive the flashes of the phasers, which crisscrossed over their heads, over their bodies lying on the ground.

Someone, that someone, whose different smell T'Pau had felt, was attacking Hayes and his men.

Who he was, how and why he was there and why he was doing what he was doing, at that moment came to irrelevant and meaningless issues.

What Harrad-Sar had to do was to take advantage of that incredible, lucky, unexpected occurrence, trying not to lose their lives just when a subtle and unhoped lifesaving rope appeared to have been thrown to him and T'Pau.

He had to grab that rope, climb on it and lift himself and the Vulcan out of the no way out abyss that just until a moment before seemed to have hopelessly sucked them into its lightless murkiness.

It was necessary take advantage of the circumstances, and try to reach the exit, but, in doing so, it was also necessary not fall prey to friendly fire, while avoiding being made target of the shots of Hayes and his companions. And it needed to hurry, because their enemies were not unwary tots, and as soon as they had recovered from their surprise - which would be coming in a very short time - they would react with force, ability and determination. Indeed, Harrad-Sar was sure this was already happening: he heard Hayes' harsh voice bark his orders and was aware that, well that went, the unknown friends could keep in check his men for not more than a few minutes.

Cautiously, Harrad-Sar raised his head, to realize the situation. He looked towards the exit. He had to figure out if the road was sufficiently unencumbered, at that time, if it were possible run to the portal with some, albeit remote, chance to reach it unscathed. So, in doing so, he heard and saw something happen, in a very fast sequence. First of all, that voice again, the unknown voice that was raised earlier and that now cried aloud something he could not understand. Then, a figure, that he wasn't able to clearly see, detached itself from behind a pillar near the entrance portal.

Two other figures approached the first, they too indistinct, difficult to be well distinguished, which arranged themselves at the sides of the other and a little ahead, towards the Temple's inside, all of them turned towards him and T'Pau. The three figures silhouetted against the light coming through the portal, the two lateral each holding a big phaser, and with this firing wildly. It was clear that they were making a hellish fire barrage to protect the central figure. This was fully against the light, with its back turned to the Portal, just a step before its semi-open leaves, as if wanting to indicate the way, and it was therefore not possible to distinguish well. However, one thing Harrad-Sar was able to see well, even in the distance that separated him from the portal and even in the general semidarkness that surrounded all things, because the backlight the central figure was rising up in, the sabre cuts of light produced by the phasers' fire and the being, the Orion, very eagle-eyed, allowed him to well catch that particular: the figure was holding something in his hand.

_A Lirpa._

Harrad-Sar turned his eyes down at T'Pau, who lay under him and he saw that she had twisted her neck so that she could see something from her position and that she too was staring towards the figure which stood against the light coming from the outside; and he saw in her eyes the same surprise that he knew that it shone through his.

In that same instant, the voice rose again, strong and imperious, dominating every noise and all the deafening confusion all around them.

Harrad-Sar was not able to understand the words, but they were commands, this was certain, and the language in which they had been spoken ... _that language was not Vulcan, but it was pretty damn similar to this_.

The Orion man turned back immediately his gaze at the figure. It seemed to him that this one was watching him and T'Pau. From that being, whoever he was, came another word, just one, extremely loud, this time perfectly understandable.

It was addressed to them both.

"**Now!**"

Harrad-Sar did not waste time on silly issues.

He stood up in a trice, dragging with him his Vulcan partner. Without any break in the sequence of his actions, without allowing her to say even a bah, he raised her in his arms, and, with her upon them, he started to run like a madman towards the figure; towards the portal.

Towards the faint hope of their salvation.

* * *

"T'Pol! **T'Pol!** **T'POL!**"

Nothing to do. The Vulcan did not wake up, sleeping her awful sleep, her eyes wide open in a nightmare that was - yes, it was - anything but a nightmare.

It was impossible to go on like this. Despite everything the doctor had told himself and had previously decided, something needed to be done, and if T'Pol could not be awakened from her nightmarish sleep-waking, then ... Well, then, given that it was unthinkable that she could be driven to wake up making use of a stimulant, which would be too hazardous ... then, she needed to be sedated. She had to be plunged into a real sleep, deeper, without nightmares, regardless they could be true or real, in which she was not overwhelmed by emotions probably not hers, or maybe even hers, and which could destroy her.

And… and together with her, if General Tucker had come back – about which there was to think, it seemed – from the nightmare which, it was evident, was now unfolding across T'Pol's brain, also him, Phlox, and most likely in a very most bad way than that of T'Pol.

Although... although such a thing could break the link, the Bond, Phlox was sure, which at that moment tied very strongly T'Pol to Tucker. And... the doctor shuddered ... although breaking this Bond, just at that moment, just in that way, could bring with it consequences to which the doctor preferred not to think.

Sweating and cursing his fate, Phlox prepared a syringe full of sedative, while continuing to observe the Vulcan who had begun to tremble, in an impressive crescendo of emotional tension.

* * *

"Down there!"

Mayweather could not hold back, but the Empress did not seem being jarred by his exclamation and nobody paid any attention to the obvious lapse of etiquette and style in which her _Prince Consort_ had fallen.

And after all, how would have it been possible? What had appeared on the display screen, which the absence of sounds has made unreal even more than it was in itself, has reduced any other thing to be insignificant and devoid of weight and substance.

The ship had flown over the city in the grip of the blazes and destruction, over and over again, in large concentric circles, looking, like a rapacious vulture, for something, no one knew what, and Mayweather had sweated, metaphorically, at the idea that he could have been mistaken. He dominated secretly the Empress, but she dominated _openly_ him.

But he had had to push her take the ship down. From above, from the deep space where it was before, it was not possible to see in detail what was happening in the city of the Rebels; therefore, even if such a manoeuvre was anything but free from hazards and risks, for a so big vessel and so difficult to steer within the atmosphere and, most importantly, so close to the ground, Mayweather had suggested to the Sovereign to make the powerful flagship descend practically to the planet's surface, to observe closely, to seek closely, that something that his suspicious and observant mind rightly believed was occurring.

Then, finally, right there, right in the heart of the city, in the living center of power of it, now in ruins and on the verge of collapse, deserted and abandoned, prey to the destructive fire... right there in the square outside the Great Temple, next to the Command Centre of Harrad-Sar, now about to fall down ...

What the devil meant that young Orion woman, lying unconscious on the ground? And the soldier next to her? Standing, alert, it was clear, right in front of the entrance portal of the Temple? And, most importantly, what was that body, belonging, as its uniform showed, to the Elite Guard, who lay on the ground, drenched in blood ... with its head cut off? _Just like the late lamented Reed?_

"Your Majesty ..."

The Empress gave him a withering look. Mayweather shut abruptly his mouth. He knew when it was better to retire in good order; a snake always knows when it is best retreat into the safe haven of its den.

The Sovereign stood up proudly. "Continue to fly over the city, with all the batteries ready to fire."

Mayweather nodded to himself. After all, the Empress knew very well what she had to do. It was not possible to use the weapon that had reduced the city in that way from that height, the ship itself would come out destroyed; that meant that only the normal weapons could be used, if it was the case. Besides, but this was obvious, the vessel could not be kept firm in the atmosphere. It could only continue to fly over the town.

"A team will prepare to be teleported to the square before the temple."

Mayweather nodded again within himself. Yes, the Empress really knew how to handle things. She was truly a great woman and it was very nice to know that he was her secret master, owner not only of her body, but also of her mind. Truly a shame if one day he should have to get rid of her.

* * *

Harrad-Sar did not care for anything, ignored everything around him. He paid no attention to, did not watch the beings – men, women, from what race, he didn't know nor was interested to be aware of - who were making a sort of living barrier around him and T'Pau and were running as in a protective circle to the portal of the temple together with them, all around them, doing a hell fire and uninterrupted against the Imperial Soldiers, trying to prevent these ones from getting up from the ground where they had thrown themselves with professional suddenness, as soon as the firsts of them had fallen under the blows unexpectedly fired by an enemy who had appeared out of nowhere.

He did not care, ignored, paid no attention to, did not watch, _wanted not to see_, when, all around them, their unknown protectors began to fall, mown down by the dashing and powerful, _and expected_, reaction of Hayes' men, from behind the columns where not a few of them had remained hidden and protected, even if disconcerted and taken aback, at the outbreak of the hell; when the shots of their enemies started to burn the air over his head, the ground behind and before his feet; when the two figures next the one holding up the Lirpa got twisted on themselves, hit by the phasers of the Imperial Soldiers, and went down, to the floor, kicking up their heels in the spasms of death.

He simply ran. Without breath, without sensitivity, without thoughts. Aching in any fiber of his martyrized body, without knowing where he found the force. All along the nave that seemed to never end. Between the hostile fire from an enemy who no longer cared not to wound him and T'Pau. Sustaining into his arms, with the most tiring of efforts, the little warm body of T'Pau, that he felt, _knew_, that, in spite of all her Vulcaness, was not able to give more than what it had already given, as patently it was said by the abandon without shame with which she had surrendered to his protective embrace.

He ran. Towards the indefinite light that filtered from the portal, to throw himself and T'Pau in it out of there. To find what, he did not know, did not want to know. To do afterward what, he did not know, did not want to know. With what hope, he did not know, did not want to know.

He ran and ran and ran. Towards that figure wielding the Lirpa and urging him; that had flung open the portal with vehemence and violence, to enable him to rush out; that was rising up, fiercely and steadily, heedless of the fire of the enemies, that pelt it.

He ran. He ran, ran, ran…

To cover a distance that he knew it was great but not infinite and that at those moments seemed endless.

And, finally, no one could ever understand and describe how this was possible, he reached the portal, and rushed out of the temple, on the steps of the churchyard. He sprang all along and over the steps, with an impetus and momentum that he did not know where it came from to him, and went beyond them, as flying, until to land, feet joined, on the parvis.

* * *

"Your Majesty! Look!"

The Empress turned suddenly toward the Ensign who had shouted. This was not the way to behave, no one could think in any way to yell a command to her, for no reason.

She made as to speak, but the young man did not give her the time. "Majesty! Look! On the screen!"

The Sovereign was dumbfounded, but she understood. There are times when certain things have to be ignored.

All eyes turned to the screen.

* * *

Harrad-Sar tumbled on the parvis, by the élan with which he had desperately launched out and aloft himself, succeeding though, not even he could ever explain how, not to break any of his bones and to continue to wrap the Vulcan in his arms and to keep, so it seemed, both him and T'Pau not too much damaged, at least not much more than they already were.

He shook his head and, grunting, got up, dazed, but still unpredictably alert, still with the Vulcan in his arms. He let her go and helped her back on her feet.

He stared at her.

She seemed to be enough all in one piece, after all. And was looking at something, behind his shoulders.

Harrad-Sar turned on himself.

A body. Wearing a human uniform, soaked with red blood.

Without a head.

Harrad-Sar turned his eyes back to the Vulcan.

Her gaze shifted elsewhere.

Harrad-Sar followed her gaze.

A war helmet. Not empty.

_The head. Severed. _

And next to it... a woman, lying on the ground. A woman of his breed, a young Orion girl, her face stained with red blood, with a chain around her neck, who was stirring up on the floor; who opened her eyes just at that moment; and who, even if with the most evident lostness yet in them, started to stare intently at him and T'Pau, adding bewildered wonder and fear in her look.

Harrad-Sar dwelled his eyes on her; on her chain; and, finally aware, on the figure, not yet noticed either by him nor T'Pau in their understandable confusion and in the frantic coming of the events the one after the other, who was holding the chain, some steps far from the girl.

A soldier, big and tall, dressed as an Imperial Elite Guard, his face hidden behind his helmet, his head turned towards him and T'Pau; and a big phaser, leveled, in his hands.

Even an Orion pirate can surrender to discouragement and despair, even a pirate and a warrior as Harrad-Sar.

_All useless. All in vain. Everything was lost. The rebellion, his stubborn fight. Him himself. And T'Pau._

But what had he hoped? This was what was waiting for him and for the Vulcan, out of the temple: a ruthless soldier of the Empire, big and strong, surely only one among many, against whom he would have no longer strength to fight, to whose mortal weapon he could only surrender and succumb.

But there has been no time for losing themselves in the hopelessness.

* * *

"Change of plans. No team has to be teleported. I want Harrad-Sar and the Vulcan with him, here. Teleport them here. Immediately. Ensign, calculate the coordinates."

"Yes, Your Majesty, it'll take a few minutes."

Without speaking, the Empress cast a withering look at the poor Ensign. He began to stammer. "Your … Your Highness, it… it… it is difficult to hook the coordinates of the square of the temple, in these conditions. I… I mean, there are too many interferences due to the breakup of the energy sources of the city. There needs… there needs to approach as much as possible and calculate well and with certainty both the approach manoeuvre and the coordinates."

Mayweather decided it was appropriate to intervene, with all due respect, of course, and with caution; however, he had to do it. Apart from the fact that the Ensign could still be very handy to him, things were exactly like he had said, Mayweather knew it very well, and it was necessary to make it that that stupid, irrational uterine female of his _beloved_ Empress realized it, or, rather, didn't let her anger obfuscate her mind to such an extent to make her ignore things that were obvious, even to her.

However, it was necessary, too, that she did not make a fool of herself. Woe! For her, and also for him, this was sure.

Damn it! He too had to be careful! Oshi was anything but stupid, and nevertheless she was almost acting so. It was really true that power sometimes makes you stupid! One mustn't let himself get intoxicated by it.

"My Empress, I beg you to be magnanimous. It is really unforgivable that a simple Ensign dares to suggest to you things that you know perfectly well, but you must remember the awe that you cause. It is difficult to keep one's head straight in your presence. Forgive him, for now, he is useful to us in these situations; and let us know your decisions."

The Empress glared by askance at her Gigolo, conscious of the anchor of salvation that he had thrown to her, and, for that reason, doubly enraged. By a whisker she had avoided from making a fool of herself, just in grace of Mayweather, of the astute snake brain he reasoned with, and who was now giving her a way to get out of the impasse

There was really to be get caught up with anger, but it was needed not to let herself be transported by it, even if there were lots of good reasons to do so. Harrad-Sar, the rebel leader, was there, in front of the Temple, ready to be grabbed and this could not be done. And she, yes, she was afraid that something would happen that would prevent her from doing this, during the time that they had to wait. Too many things she did not know had to have happened on the planet, things that her _beloved_ Paramour most likely had expected or suspected. And he had not said anything! Damn snake! Damn treacherous snake!

But this time, he would paid. At the appropriate time, of course. At the right time. Maybe, with the help of another animal in human form.

For now though...

The Empress sat, calm and secure, on her command chair. "Five minutes. Not more."

All the technical staff snapped at her command.

* * *

Behind them, noises and shouts. And shots of guns.

They turned around.

From the portal, several men, all wearing the battle dresses of the Imperial Guards, were rushing outside.

_The end. For real._

And nevertheless, why did the soldiers not fire against him and T'Pau? Or, rather, why, while they were madly running towards him and the Vulcan, they continued to turn their heads as for looking at their shoulders? With their weapons ready to fire... toward the Temple?

A light of understanding began to shine in Harrad-Sar's brain and he heard his petite Vulcan - *_Mine?_ * - say "We haven't been able to discern how our rescuers were dressed." Yeah, they hadn't been able; until that moment.

_Maybe it was not yet the end._

Their eyes got pinned on the temple gate. A soldier, apparently the last, emerged from the portal, pausing an instant to close it powerfully, as if to prevent or delay that someone else may come out.

He wore the uniform of a Captain of the Elite Guard. And was holding in his hand a Lirpa.

* * *

What the hell was going on? What were they doing there, those soldiers? Were they trying to capture Harrad-Sar? Yes, of course, it could be, but something was wrong, there was something fishy in all this. They were members of the Elite Guard, apparently, therefore under the direct command of Hayes. But he, where was him? Inside the temple? To do what?

The Empress had no direct control over what was happening on the planet, and this made her furious, literally. She hated not being able to exercise direct control and the lack of radio communication, which in fact she herself had wanted, to avoid that some unknown enemy, in listening, (and this enemy existed, this was a fact) may pick up something useful for himself and harmful for her and for the Empire, has made things even worst.

Her Majesty Oshi Sato the First was on hot coals, and certainly it did not help the expression of Mayweather, not exactly quiet.

But how much time was needed, damnit? How much time the technical staff was using to do what she had ordered? She wanted Harrad-Sar on her ship, before something could happen able to prevent it, even though she was not sure what.

She turned a second. "Four minutes. Only four."

A muffled exclamation made her turn her head back toward the screen. It had been Mayweather, and such a fact was not by him.

Despite herself, the Empress's eyes widened in amazement like everyone else, for that matter.

From the portal of the temple an officer had come out, running as a madman, a Captain, apparently. He stopped abruptly, just an instant, to close forcefully the Portal.

He was holding something.

The Empress winced, uncertain, very uncertain. She knew that many veterans kept and used, in peace and in war, the strangest trophies, depredated from the subject races.

But that one!

A Lirpa! And... yes, a very odd Lirpa, to watch carefully.

The Empress raised her voice. It resounded a little shrill. "Only three minutes! Not a second longer!"

Then, suddenly, it occurred to her ...

Another order. Curt and firm. Peremptory. In a steady voice, this time.

"I also want that Captain here."

* * *

In a flash, the figure wearing the Captain's uniform turned around.

He dashed along the steps, brandishing the Lirpa.

He yelled as he ran.

Again that language, unknown and yet so similar to the Vulcan. So similar that this time Harrad-Sar seemed to understand something; something as: "Ready!"

Then another shout. "Valdore!" - A name? Again. Pressing. - "VALDORE!" - And Again. - **VALD**…"

The scream died in the throat of the man.

* * *

"**NO!**"

The scream burst out from T'Pol's mouth.

* * *

A flash in one with a sharp snap. The man swerved to the side, turned on himself, as if pushed - as if struck - with force and violence, by something. From behind.

He fell with a crash on the stairs, on his back, and tumbled down rolling over them, until stopped on the parvis, just a few steps away from T'Pau and Harrad-Sar.

* * *

T'Pol jumped out of bed, like a fury, sweeping up the doctor and his syringe, which shattered on the floor.

Like a madwoman, her hospital nightgown fluttering around her, she railed herself against the facing wall, as if she had not been aware of its existence, of what she was doing, where she was going, as if she wanted to reach something or _someone_ that only she could see, someone who was over the wall, over _that_ wall. She bumped into it and right after, as if she had not even realized what she had done, turned frantically, leaning on the wall with her back.

She looked at the doctor with haunted eyes, but he could bet anything, even his life, she wasn't seeing him, neither him nor any other thing that was there.

Phlox was stunned, unable to act or even think.

He stared, wide-eyed, at the Vulcan, who was breathing with terrible trouble. Her mouth became dropped open in a scream, a cry... desperate, which pierced the ears of the physician.

"**NOOOOOOOO!**"

Then she slowly slid down the wall, until to sit on the ground, undone and tousled, her back against the wall, her legs, uncovered, curled up beneath her, her mouth still open in a silent scream, eyes wide in empty.

She remained so, inert, motionless.

Her arms lay abandoned at her sides.

* * *

The man remained inert, flat on his back, motionless.

A stench of burning flesh was rising from him, and, beneath him, along the ground, a red blood stain was spreading, imbuing the soil.

His Lirpa lay abandoned beside him.

* * *

**End of chapter eight.**

**TBC**

_Well, my friends, what can I say?_

_Only one thing, I believe, and I hope that it may be of some consolation. Please, keep in mind what I told you at the end of the previous chapter. Do you remember? I said that things can be very misleading, that we must not trust appearances._

_Hopefully that's true, my friends. Let's hope for real!_

_Certainly, right now, it does seem that the no way out abyss from which Harrad-Sar has desperately tried to pull out himself and T'Pau is hopelessly ending up by sucking all and sundry in its lightless murkiness._

_We can only hope this horrible light lack is not true, that there's, somewhere, some light able to illumine, even faintly, the stifling darkness of this murkiness._


	9. Chapter 9 Legends

**THE EMPIRE'S DESTINY**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Nine**

_**Legends**_

* * *

A/N

_Yes. Here we speak of legends, my friends._

_Legends._

_No word must be added, and I am sure my dear Beta, my friend Linda, agrees with me._

* * *

**THE EMPIRE'S DESTINY**

**Chapter Nine**

_**Legends**_

Her head was spinning.

The young Orion female was incapable of realizing where she was, what was happening, what she was seeing. The nightmare that had clawed her had turned into a kaleidoscope of incomprehensible realities.

Hayes, yes, him she remembered well.

And his eyes of ice.

His voice, derisive and sharp, as he said to her what would be for her.

And of her being dragged in chains.

And... and of that man, the one whom her guard had called Captain.

And of the head of the guard, who had splashed away, severed by the weapon of that Captain.

The blood, squirting out upon her.

And the punch, sudden, of the Captain.

The dark.

And the re-emergence to consciousness, just to see ... to see...

That was Harrad-Sar. She could not be mistaken. The man, wounded, bleeding, panting, exhausted, who was before her, and was staring at her, looking dazed, it was him. The great Harrad-Sar. The guidance and light.

The legend.

Now true, real, tangible, in front of her.

But an awfully tattered legend, to watch him!

And who was that woman, that Vulcan, who was practically clinging to him as if everything depended on him? Everything, even she herself?

A Vulcan, who acted like that?

And a torn, bruised, dirty, Vulcan female, with her clothes in tatters, with eyes wide-open as... as a yawning chasm opened wide on fear and despair!

She! That young woman! A Vulcan female!

What could those eyes have seen, so horrible, so hard to endure, to push her to behave like that, so far away from everything that made the Vulcans - those damned people, who had given the Humans the strength and the power - what were they? Cold fishes in human form, without the slightest spurt of true life?

What? What had reduced her like this? What… - the fear, a nameless fear, seized the young Orion woman, a fear deeper, more intense, more chilling than she had felt before, because before she could not have such a sharp perception of what might have happened to her, in the hands of the Humans, in the hands of Hayes - … _**what**_ had reduced like this... Harrad-Sar?

Harrad-Sar! HARRAD-SAR! The man who couldn't be wounded, nor touched, nor bent!

He, in this state!

Yes, her head was spinning, she did not understand, she was scared and confused.

But the kaleidoscope of disconcerting and ghastly realities that had sucked her into its phantasmagorical figures, gave her no respite, didn't allow her even to try to realize.

Gunshots, screams, coming from Temple inside.

Then, soldiers, dressed as soldiers of the Empire, emerging steeply from its portal; running toward them, looking back over their shoulders, toward the ajar Temple door.

And then, on the threshold, he, the Captain of the Guard elite, _**that**_ Captain.

It was him. She was sure. It was him!

With his Lirpa in his hand.

The eyes of the young woman could not break away from him.

They followed him, step by step, in the suddenness and rapidity of his actions, as he closed, with force and with a crash, the Temple's door, strongly pushing the half closed leaf, until it beat against the other; as he turned on himself in a trice; as he rushed headlong down the stairs leading to the Temple, toward the outside, while shouting incomprehensible things.

The eyes of the Orion girl saw everything; they did not miss a thing.

Nothing.

Not even the sudden flash behind the man.

They saw him leap sideways and twist himself, as though blown by a terrible force.

Saw him rolling down the stairs.

Saw him fall to the ground and stop there, like plumb.

They saw the pool of blood that started to spread on the soil, under his body, stock-still and inert.

His whole body. _Even… his chest_.

Unable to bear that sight, the eyes of the girl broke away from the figure, motionless on the Temple square. With his Lirpa, motionless at his side.

They climbed back to the Temple.

Its great portal now was wide open, as it had never been.

A lot of soldiers were coming out from the inside, running between the two widened leaves. Only one appeared firm, right on the Temple door. One couldn't distinguish him well among the others who ran in a zig zag and intercrossed with each other ahead of him, but ... yes, it was a phaser, what he was holding in his hands and it seemed ... seemed that he was staring at the still figure bleeding on the pavement, as if he was watching the result of the fatal blow which _**his**_ phaser had fired.

But the girl did not have time to figure out if her intuition was correct, because all hell broke loose.

The imperial soldiers started to shoot, against... against the other imperial soldiers, the ones who had come out of the Temple as firsts, and who now were all around her and Harrad-Sar, with his Vulcan companion. These began to return fire, some throwing themselves to the ground, trying to expose less of themselves to the fire of the other Imperial soldiers, who were far more numerous.

_Much more._

The cross-fire of the weapons and the light of the blazes vividly illuminated everything.

The girl felt herself being yanked by her neck; she turned her head and saw that the guard who was holding her chain had fallen to the ground, hit by the enemy fire.

She was free, but did not even have time to realize it.

A voice beside her. A shout of pain.

Harrad-Sar! Struck, him too!

He was lying on the soil, and the Vulcan was bending over him, crouched on the ground; she was holding his head in her lap, between her hands; was calling him, aloud.

"Harrad-Sar! Harrad-Sar!"

His voice, hollow and weak. Stunted. While an acrid smell of burning flesh was rising from him.

"My... shoulder ..."

In that exact moment, another voice rose, strong and powerful. Harsh. Peremptory.

She knew very well this voice!

"Enough. The last worms still on this world, I want them alive. Catch them."

She could never forget that voice, even if she had lived a hundred times the lifespan of a Vulcan.

Her eyes snapped towards the Temple gate, to the man who was still erect and solitary in the midst of the leaves, behind the protective fire of the other soldiers.

She jumped up, as if looking for a better view.

She recognized the friezes on the helmet.

She shivered with terror.

The helpless aura of her useless hormones spread through the scorching air.

Yes, yes, yes! It was Hayes! **It was him!**

* * *

He had hit him. Whoever it was that damn man, that unknown enemy, with the uniform and the bars of a Captain of the Élite Guard and with that strange Lirpa in his hands, who had suddenly materialized at the head of a handful of worms, dressed as imperial soldiers and had unexpectedly come to Harrad-Sar's aid, he had hit him.

And deadly, it seemed.

With cold satisfaction, Hayes had seen the man roll down along the temple steps, to knock down against the ground, remaining at last lying on the soil, motionless in a pool of blood.

Hayes had not bothered to give orders to his men. They knew what to do and how to act, but his sharp eyes and probing, able to capture and analyze in a heartbeat even the smallest detail and elusive, had caught in a flash the scene that had appeared to them out of the temple, far different from what they were supposed to see.

Harrad-Sar and the Vulcan woman, well, yes, this was obvious, as well as the Orion girl.

What was not obvious, what had not been foreseen, was that, to sustain the chain of the girl, it was not the man he had left on guard, but another man, wearing, yes, the same uniform of the other, but with decidedly superior size, and that his soldier, the one who was supposed to guard the girl and inform them of whatever was happening, was lying on the ground in a lake of blood.

Headless.

*_Headless!_*

This realization struck Hayes with the force of a hammer, as his eyes darted over the helmet smeared by blood, laying on the parvis and hiding the head of his man, detached from its neck.

A part of his brain began to ruminate frantically, while another part followed the destructive action of his men, and a further part was careful to take every possible reaction of the enemies that could harm him.

They had been suddenly attacked by unknown men.

_As it had happened when the Empress had wanted to show everyone and everywhere the end that she wanted to reserve for T'Pol._

It was highly unlikely, almost impossible, that there was more than one breed, sect or whatever it was, able to plan and engage in command actions, so risky and well organized.

_As the one to the rescue of T'Pol and the one to the rescue of Harrad-Sar._

Conclusion? The origin of the two rescue expeditions was, with the highest probability, not to say with absolute certainty, the same. In both cases it involved the same enemy. For what purpose? Hard to tell, but one thing was certain: purloining that Vulcan bitch from the revenge of the Empress, in the middle of the "ceremony" which was to consecrate once and for all and forever her power, by showing to all what was the end of those who would dare to defy her and the Empire, had had a destructive effect, and it had needed a hard and difficult work, to regain what had been lost.

Similarly, retrieving Harrad-Sar, just as he was about to be captured and delivered into the hands of the Empress; just when the Empire was showing its strength to the whole universe, by destroying once and for all and forever the latest outbreak of revolt remained, indeed the source itself, the very origin of the revolt; and retrieving him in his own homeland, just while this country was falling to pieces under the blows of the Empire; him, the flag, the symbol, the emblem of the revolt ... well this, if it had been done, would have an even more destructive effect. New outbreaks of revolt would be turned on everywhere, because the subject peoples would have proof that someone, some unknown enemy of the Empire, was able to conduct victorious military actions against it, and the Empire, however strong and powerful and well organized and equipped with the new and extremely mighty weapons, could not be everywhere, without forgetting that there still were the few forces remained loyal to the old Emperor, who could take advantage of the situation.

Okay, everything was hanging together, everything made sense. But what need to act this way? And why ... - The brain of Hayes continued briskly to unravel the tangle of his reasonings. - … why his soldier…?

Hayes narrowed his eyes in the effort to put in its place the last piece, the one he felt he still lacked.

His soldier had been beheaded.

_As Reed._

A Lirpa, if well used, could easily remove the head of a man from his body at a single stroke.

_As the one the would-be Captain of the Élite Guard had held in his hands._

Hayes's eyes widened in final understanding.

That Captain, the one who had led the unknown intruders in the attempted rescue of Harrad-Sar, perhaps, indeed for sure, had also been the Commandant of the rescue expedition of T'Pol. The unknown enemy who had so graciously put an end to the days of Reed could be, indeed certainly was, the same who had deprived the soldier of the housing of his thoughts.

_He, in both cases, had left his mark._

His brand of fear.

"_Be careful, mind you. Look to your head.". _This was the message of those severed heads, and this was the strategy - yes, the strategy - of the unknown enemy: a strategy of terror.

Yes, undoubtedly there was the same hand behind the two rescue actions, and this hand was guided by a brain that was following a clear strategy. Maybe its "body" did not have the forces and means to fight the Empire in the open field, or maybe it was unsure that an open war could have been resolved in a victory, maybe it feared defeat. But then... if you can not or do not want to knock down your enemy with a well-aimed punch to his face, well ... in this case, work at his ribs. Sap him, take away energies from him.

Strike terror in him.

By showing him how his head could end up.

And eventually he will yield.

If things were this way, and all suggested it was so, there was only one way to win out over such an enemy. Tracking down him, unearthing him and tackling him at his own home. The best defence is offense, history teaches. But to do this, it was necessary to have data, it was needed to have someone who, maybe "gently" asked, could provide useful information to track down this enemy, and, possibly, helpful details about its strengths, its organization, its logistics... its real strategy.

All information, that only someone high enough in the chain of command of this enemy, could possess.

Someone like that self-styled Captain of the Élite Guard.

If he was, as it was logical to think, the same officer who had led both enemy actions, he must have been a Commandant damn good, damn capable, regardless of whether the last action went badly for him. It was even rational and plausible to think that he might be the deviser of both actions, the inspirer, somehow, of the strategy lying behind them. It is not uncommon that commando actions are conducted in the first person by those who have devised them. These actions are not infrequently carried out also in order to test the validity of a certain strategic line, line that, almost always, was born in the brain of their designer. In practice, the responsibility of the proof of the merits or otherwise of this strategic line is left entirely to him. Glory to him, if he is successful. Nothing lost, if he fails. Nothing, but him.

So, that unknown Commandant had to know, necessarily, a lot of things about the enemy.

Useful, highly useful things.

_And he, Hayes, had killed him!_

Hayes clenched convulsively his phaser, in a dumb rage, as punched mentally himself. If he had discovered that one of his subordinates had made a mistake serious even just a quarter of that made by him, he would have locked his man in the pain machine invented by Reed and would throw away the key.

But how the hell could he have been such an idiot? How could he have let anger, at having been surprised in that way, overwhelm him to the point to shoot that bastard with intent to kill, when, to prevent his escape and any other devilment he was going to orchestrate with those strange cries turned to whom knows whom, it would have been enough scything his legs, just to make an example?

But no! Stupid, stupid man! No! He had shot to kill, and his unerring aim had not betrayed him. No, damnit! Had not at all betrayed him!

He breathed deeply, trying to calm down. What had been done, had been done, no point in crying over spilled milk.

He concentrated his attention on the battle that was taking place in the parvis. The few moments that he had used to develop the thread of his reasonings and to come to his not precisely satisfactory conclusions, had been enough to his men to get the better of their enemies. Of course, that hadn't happened without having to pay the price. Not a few of his soldiers lay lifeless on the ground, but their number and their training were too superior. Only two of the hostile soldiers were still standing, firing their last futile shots, and, in a second, they would have reached their companions, with their damned Commandant, in a better world. Or worse.

Unless...

Hayes kicked himself mentally for the second time in that short amount of time. What the hell? Was there something in the air of that planet, which made his brain numb?

Why the heck would he have to let his men kill all the enemies? Sure, it was unlikely that those two enemy soldiers were in possession of information as useful as those that certainly had been in the head of their dead Captain, but some helpful and significant data, well, they could still deliver. Not to mention that if, once back, victorious, he had presented to the Empress, and especially to her Gigolo, the fruit of his ruminations, together with the possible means to track down the unknown enemy, or at least, to have some useful information about him, whereas previously there was only a groping in the dark, that is to say those two enemy soldiers, certainly not despicable seasoning to the main course consisting of Harrad-Sar... well, who ever would be able to hinder his ascent? That dirty, but far from unpleasant, Vulcan female who had been caught together with Harrad-Sar and that young Orion girl, would even have been, the one along with the other, a very small thing in comparison to what he would be able to ask and obtain.

And to hell with Corporal Cole, and her eyes full of sadness and reproach!

*_Come on! Before it's too late._*

His voice rose up strong and powerful. Harsh. Peremptory.

"Enough. The last worms still on this world, I want them alive. Catch them."

* * *

Phlox no longer knew what to do.

He was watching T'Pol, sitting inert on the floor with her back against the wall, her arms lying absolutely limp at her sides, the hospital gown all disarrayed around her body and pulled up, until to discover the thighs, her legs folded beneath her.

He was watching her.

Was watching her face as blank as a sheet, her mouth now closed and colourless, her eyes wide open and glassy, that saw nothing.

He was staring at her.

And was sweating.

In the despair.

In the helplessness.

And in fear.

But it was not only the fear for what was happening, that he did not know how to deal with, that would end up to break up T'Pol and that, consequently, would end up to break up him too, when he would have give account of that.

It was something different.

He had never seen T'Pol in this state and would have never thought to see her that way. Even when Tucker, the "General" Tucker, had shown her to him in the conditions in which she had been reduced by her unequal fight in the cage of horror in which she had been locked up, not even at that moment had he experienced such an impression.

This was a T'Pol that was beyond the sphere of existence that was fitting for her.

And was a T'Pol that frightened him, much more than the cold and stainless T'Pol he had been accustomed to dealing with.

And this fear, this invincible sense of unreality, paralyzed him.

It was something that went beyond the pre-established order of things, it was not ... was not fair. Exactly so. It was not fair. T'Pol would be gone thus, broken by the last, supreme injustice of an unjust world, by a Bond with a Human, with one of the worst exponents of the breed that had oppressed her, her people and all peoples who fell under its yoke.

Or, perhaps, a strange, bizarre sort of justice, the only form of pitiless justice that there could be in this wicked world, there was, in what was happening. She should have paid so, in this way, unnatural and abhorrent for her, the penalty of what the breed to which she belonged had done, allowing Humans to become the masters of space.

Phlox could not understand how such ideas were able to make their way into his brain, or, perhaps, in part, he could, despite what he was, what he had become. Perhaps, in what was happening, he felt the end of what could have been a possible spark of light in this dark world.

And this hurt, made him think, even in the situation in which he was standing; indeed, in some ways, made the situation even harder to bear.

But what was happening to him? What the hell was happening to him? And yet this, this odd mixture of such unusual thoughts and perhaps because of this even more able to increase his fear, were stirring in the mind of Phlox, while he was watching T'Pol, as he was waiting, helpless, for _**it**_ to happen.

And lastly, _**it**_ happened.

Suddenly, the Vulcan narrowed her eyes. She tightened them. She stiffened throughout, holding her breath and clenching her fists, her wan lips convulsively tight against each other. One could clearly hear her grit her teeth.

Phlox stiffened in turn, sweating like a pig.

Here! It was about to happen! T'Pol was going... to crack!

Phlox closed his eyes, he too, his fists clenched, as T'Pol.

He knew he was not mistaken. He knew well, as everyone on the ship of which he had been part, that Tucker was the one, as much as this might seem incredible, that T'Pol had chosen to satisfy her needs and desires; but the fact was that, although even stranger, even more absurd, even more unthinkable this could appear, he now knew, with full evidence, that from this unimaginable attraction a Bond had get formed between Tucker and T'Pol, a Vulcan-type Bond, a Bond of those that the Vulcans whispered, reluctantly, could occur, in the ancient times, between two Vulcans, a male and a female, destined to be one.

_One_. To the point that the death of the one would lead to the death of the other.

Between Tucker and T'Pol had been formed a Bond of legend.

And the legend, the tragic legend, was now going to be fully turned into a tragic reality.

If, before, Phlox could have nourished a few doubts, now he could no longer have any. The very thing that was happening in front of him was evident proof.

Tucker had departed, he didn't know why and to do what, but certainly had not gone to pick peanuts.

And he was dead.

And now T'Pol was dying with him.

And... cursed Tucker! Cursed T'Pol! Cursed the Humans, and the Vulcans, and the whole Universe!... he, too, Phlox, would die, because it mattered little that Tucker couldn't keep his promise to make him pay dearly if he had failed to heal T'Pol completely. He, Phlox, would remain alone at the mercy of the strange and unknown people Tucker had made cahoots. And what need had those Aliens of him? What the hell would they would make of him? They would have thrown him in the trash!

Cursed them! Cursed the world! Cursed his cursed fate!

Phlox slumped on the floor, contemplating his doom, his eyes still closed, with, in the ears, the harsh sound of the rough breathing of T'Pol.

_Rough?_

_**Rough?**_

_**It was not rough!**_

Not daring to believe what he heard, Phlox gasped, tense in the most extreme attention, with his eyes always closed, as afraid to open up and realize that what they would see wouldn't correspond with what the ears were hearing.

But no. NO! He was not deceiving himself! T'Pol's breathing had changed. It had regularized, had become calm, rhythmic, quiet.

His agitation had prevented him from realizing it before, but it was so.

Phlox snapped open his eyes and looked at the Vulcan from his position on the floor. In that way she was exactly in front of him, at the same level.

She was still sitting on the floor, in fact, with her back against the wall, but had changed her position and now looked anything but broken.

She had crossed her legs, totally oblivious that they appeared entirely exposed from the edge of the hospital gown, had rested her arms on her knees, with the tips of the index and thumb of each hand together, and the remaining fingers slightly flexed.

She stood well upright with her back.

Her visage was facing forward.

Her features had relaxed.

And her expression had changed completely.

It was calm.

And intent.

Incredibly intent.

With eyes closed.

With the mouth that opened and closed, lightly, rhythmically, in one with the pace of her breathing, to utter words almost inaudible, so much they were spoken softly.

Without getting up, Phlox leaned well forward, resting on the floor with his hands.

His face was now only a short distance from that of T'Pol, slightly lower down, his eyes fixed on her mouth, from below upwards, as if to pull out of it the sound of the words she was saying.

He now could pick them out.

Was not English.

It was a language that he and a few other non-Vulcans knew.

Was High Vulcan.

Phlox listened attentively to those words.

They were always the same, rhythmically repeated in the same tone, in the same cadence, in the same sequence, at the rhythm of the breathing of T'Pol.

_One breath, one word. One word, one breath._

_An inspiration, an exhalation along with a word. An inspiration, an exhalation along with a word…_

And so on. Without rest. Without end. Monotonously. Without ever stopping a single moment.

In an unremitting, steady, mesmerizing, hypnotic mantra.

"Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou… shall… not… die… my… breath… is… yours… Thou…"

* * *

_**TBC**_

_Legends._

_Great, immortal legends._


	10. Chapter 10 The Hope of The Empire

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Ten**

_**The Hope of the Empire**_

* * *

_**A/N**_

_**Long time has passed, my friends, since I have stopped the plot of this story, and I apologize.**_

_**But, here, the thread starts again to uncoil, thanks also to the help of my friend Linda.**_

_**Of the rest I could not stop this thread, because this is the story which tells, which reveals, the Destiny of the Empire.**_

_**The story which tells, which reveals, what is its hope.**_

* * *

**The Empire's Destiny**

**Chapter Ten**

_**The Hope of the Empire**_

* * *

All happened in a few instants.

She had not even had time to fully realize the significance of the order issued by the hideous, scary specter of terror that stood, looming and ominous, at the door of the Temple. She had not even yet been able to fully grasp the extent of her fear itself.

The Orion girl felt, even before seeing, the Imperial soldiers, aware of the risks of being mortally hit, by acting in this way, but also of the sure result of their action, launching themselves resolutely and with fury at the onslaught of the two enemy men, the only two who had remained still alive, close to her, to perform the order of their Commandant, of the never quite detestable General Hayes.

She saw them come, like a furious and overwhelming tide, and lash out against the two as only one man.

And she saw the gesture, fast, almost imperceptible, of the head of one of the two and the nod of response of the other, even faster, even more imperceptible.

She was close, closer than all the others, including Harrad-Sar and the Vulcan female. She had been able to see all this, even if it happened in the blink of an eye. And able also to see what followed. Even more swiftly than a the blink of an eye.

So she saw the meteoric movement of one of the hands of both the soldiers, as their weapons had ceased their infernal fire; she saw those hands go to their belts, filled with buttons, equipment, devices, to do something that she has been unable to catch; and she saw, without it being possible to notice the slightest solution of continuity, the two soldiers stiffen suddenly and fall, both, to the ground, like dead bodies, just a split second before they were submerged by the enemy tide of Hayes's men.

And then, immediately after, as soon as the bodies of the soldiers, who had hidden them from her sight, moved off, a pair bent on their knees and a pair standing, all with their heads facing down, toward those two forms, towards those two enemies who lay supine on their backs, she saw that these ones were completely immobile.

That their chests were not moving.

Just like that of the man who had commanded them, of the unknown, fake Captain of the Élite Guard who had held the Vulcan Lirpa in his hands.

She saw that they were dead.

Like him.

For a moment, it seemed like the world, in ruins all around them, had ceased to exist, for her, for the soldiers, for all of them; there no longer existed any urgency, it didn't matter anymore.

No human sound, no voice were heard any longer. Only the crackling of the fires, the intermittent thuds of the collapses.

And just then, almost to underline the sudden silence of the weapons and shouts of the combatants, a mighty and dull noise wounded abruptly the ears of all, calling brusquely everyone to the mortally unsafe reality that surrounded them.

The palace that had been the command centre of Harrad-Sar, had started to collapse.

Pieces of walls began to fall, in flames, all around.

As if to respond to the collapse of the former command-palace of the rebels, another sound made its appearance, sharp, strong, strident.

Everyone could see. A large crack was making its way along one of the high and mighty pillars of the great portal of the Temple.

Then a roar, a tremendous din from above.

Everyone's faces turned upward. A huge piece of debris, detached from the palace, had collapsed onto the dome of Temple, with a dreadful impact. It smashed through it and penetrated the inside. The dull roar, the rumble of its falling down towards the base of the Temple rang, dull and powerful.

The pieces of the palace in flaking off, began to fall off with increasing frequency, sweeping the Temple forcefully, falling all over the place on the road and on the parvis.

Then, almost suddenly, everything stopped, as if a sort of new labile equilibrium had been reached.

Before the final ruinous collapsing.

The imperial soldiers - few, now, and all of them more or less seriously bruised and wounded, and now all standing and all firm - began to fidget. All the war helmets turned towards the man still upright and immovable on the door of the Temple.

* * *

Damn it!

Damn them!

Hayes looked angry and helpless at the bodies of the two enemy soldiers motionless on the ground, lifeless.

Damn them!

The anger and impotence gnawed him, but, also, he felt something very similar to admiration for those soldiers who, without hesitation and without anyone being able to do anything, had patently handed themselves in death before falling alive into the hands of his men. In his hands.

And, also, something akin to a vague sense of fear.

With whom had they to deal? Who were those unknown enemies, so bold, so well organized, and willing even to kill themselves in order not to run the risk of revealing anything of themselves, under the "delicate requests" to which they would be submitted?

Who were those enemies, cold and able to foresee everything? Even the need, _and the way_, to die, before being forced to surrender?

He shook himself, with hidden fury. But what the hell was he doing? Had he become crazy? Death was falling upon them and he was mulling over those soldiers, enemies, unknown and _irreparably_ dead? Of what had been lost and could be retrieved nevermore?

Go! Away! Out from here! It was idiotic to stay there, to die needlessly under the rubble of the buildings that were collapsing. There was nothing more that they could do. It had gone so. Okay! So be it! But Harrad-Sar was in his hands. And also the two women. He and the two females were not lost. And had not to be lost!

Away from there, as long as they could yet do it, with the prisoners and with their skin still intact. What was he waiting for? The unexpected attack had upset him up to that point? He no longer recognized himself!

He threw himself down the stairs, as shouted, strongly and harshly. "Let's go away from here! Take Harrad-Sar and the two women and run!"

No sooner said than done.

The few surviving soldiers neglected the two women. It was unthinkable they could lift them off the ground, as a dead weight, and drag them away in this way. They were now too few and battered to load themselves not only with Harrad-Sar, who certainly didn't look able to walk, but also with the two women, not to mention that not only they had to run, but also that it was necessary that in some way they made square to defend themselves from any unexpected attack, however improbable, at least until they could be reunited with the bulk of the imperial troops left behind in the rest of the city. The females appeared more or less able to muddle through on their own and required merely to be controlled while all of them were running away from there, and if it could be, indeed if was sure, that the Vulcan female, reduced very badly, had to be pushed and tugged while fleeing and would suffer in desperation, worse for her. So, limiting themselves to simply shaking their weapons with clear meaning against the two women, the soldiers "applied themselves" to Harrad-Sar.

With malicious pleasure, exuding vengeful satisfaction, on indication of the second in command, two of them, not yet in a bad state, grasped with malevolence and desire to hurt the sore Orion man, whose green colour had turned an ill and pale greyish and who seemed to breathe through his teeth with the force of despair. They pulled him straight up with violence by placing themselves on either side of him to keep him standing, and holding him under his armpits.

The annoyance and spite at being forced to drag him in that way, laboriously, with effort, with fatigue, would be largely outclassed by the delight to taste closely his suffering, even more, by the joy of personally being able to make him see stars at every step.

How wonderful, how satisfying being able to afford to handle, to treat in this way, Harrad-Sar, the direct and indirect cause of all their troubles! He would pay dearly, that damn Orion! Very dearly! For having been the soul and the engine of the uprising. For having been the indirect cause of that last, arduous fight they, just they, had had to cope with. For their comrades who had died. For the fear and anxiety that they were experiencing at that moment, forced, as they were, not to run away without him, and at the risk of being crushed at any moment under the debris in tumble. For the fear, unworthy of the Soldiers of the Empire, unworthy of them, of what they were and what they represented, that they had felt before, when they had to face that damn pirate inside the Temple.

Okay. Now they could go away, finally. Their legs were already in motion. Go! Go!

"**Stop!**"

With dismayed puzzlement the surviving group of bruised soldiers heard the incomprehensible order of their General. They stopped abruptly, before they could have really moved away, incredulous and bewildered, but too disciplined "True Imperial Soldiers", to dare disobey. Discipline was the force of Empire, but in some of them, in their minds, for the first time, it peeped out the hazy perception that, if not substantiated with some kind of aware understanding, that iron and blind discipline could become the Empire's perdition.

But it was not yet time for such an idea.

The Empire was strength. Hardness. And obedience. And indisputable, not contrastable, authority.

They turned towards Hayes, their general and their unquestionable leader, eagerly expecting what he would say or do.

He was there, a little distance from them, yet back, towering over the inert body of the unknown enemy Commandant.

He seemed to be scrutinizing him, almost if trying to penetrate with his cold eyes, hidden behind his visor, the helmet of the man lying unmoving on the ground and if his soldiers had been able to see those eyes, they would also have been able to catch the gaze of awfully vexed annoyance, of rage, or perhaps it would be fairer to say of real scorching hate, with which he was staring at the motionless enemy.

That man, materializing out of nowhere, had surprised him; had been able to put him in trouble; had almost succeeded in robbing him of his coveted, _and deserved_, plunder. And even in his defeat, he had been able to scoff at him.

He had gone, that man who came out of nothing; then had gone back in the nothingness that had vomited him, under the blind fury and unreasonableness of the resentment that he had been able to arouse in him, Hayes, before he was able to understand the error he was making. Had gone without revealing any of his secrets, and his soldiers, clearly faithful to a hard iron discipline that had bound them to him and to the mission of which he had been in charge.

With those secrets.

That man had twitted him, had mocked him. Had partially robbed him of his glory.

It would have been logical and appropriate that he ordered his men to take with them the body of that man or of one of his subordinates, so that their faces could be seen in person by the Empress and that the scientific staff of the Sovereign could inspect those bodies and their devices. They could have been able to derive from them important and useful data, information, notions, that they, at that time and in that situation and with the means at their disposal, had certainly no way to discover. For this, he had stopped his men right when they were about to finally leave from there, with their prey, trying to avoid impending death. But he had immediately realized that he could not make his soldiers carry that man, or any of his dead companions, along with the other prisoners. It was not possible. They wouldn't have the strength, and at that point, not even the appropriate number to do so with some safety, if of safety one could really talk at those moments. Unless he had not given up the Orion girl or the Vulcan female, indeed, both them, since, obviously, Harrad-Sar was not renounceable.

But the disfiguring snub that that damn opponent Commandant had played on him could not have come up to this point. He could not allow himself to be defrauded until to such a point of what he wanted and deserved.

_Nevertheless…_

Hayes' eyes seemed to want to pierce the helmet visor of the dead enemy, behind which, since the head lay turned on the right, he could only see the left eye, concealed, however, under his eyelid, blocked shut in the immovability of death.

_Nevertheless one face, the face of that man, that one, at least, could have been seen. _

Now.

By him.

And maybe a little of those secrets could be revealed.

And maybe he could use them in the upper echelons.

And maybe he could be - _**would be**_ - not only the conquering hero, but also the bearer of the future victories of the Empire.

It would have been easy to provide some plausible explanations regarding any information that he could be able to find, without going into details of what really had happened. As for his men, in none of them would it be passed through the anteroom of the brain to blurt out anything; only one person had the right to report about missions and actions of war: he, Hayes. And his soldiers knew this well. _**Very well**_.

_And then, aside from all that… - _a surge of awareness and weird sincerity stirred in the depths of Hayes _- … he, quite simply, before going away, __**wanted**__ to see the man's face._

So…

Lowering himself from his towering position over the lying man, Hayes leaned upon him, stooping on his flexed knees and, with his phaser well held in his left hand, he stretched out his right to the helmet of the lifeless enemy to remove it.

* * *

Phlox almost – _almost_ - no longer felt fear or apprehension.

What was happening in front of him was too striking. It was… uncanny. It absorbed him virtually completely.

It had made him go back, without him even noticing, to the Phlox of a time that had been and no longer was; to the Phlox who could have been and had not been. And who now - surprisingly, partially, probably or, rather, almost certainly, without such a thing being ever possible to be fully and truly realized - was in some way again.

The hypnotic litany of T'Pol was continuing without end.

She was reciting a prayer.

A mystic supplication.

A liturgical chant

_A transcendent order._

* * *

The young Orion girl goggled her eyes, unmindful, for a moment, of the cut-throats who surrounded her, of the Vulcan, of Harrad-Sar, even of Hayes, even of her fate of horror.

It could not be!

_Could not!_

Yet ...

Yet it was true.

* * *

The litany stopped. Suddenly.

T'Pol stiffened at the spasm.

Goggled her eyes, holding her breath.

Phlox almost choked.

Then, it was as if the Vulcan's face, her features, became slack. She went limp, sagged on herself.

She dropped her visage, her head went down, her hair fell downwards all around it.

A brief moment, then her head rose.

Her face appeared again; haggard, taut, worn down. But alive.

And, in some way, relieved. As lightened.

It nearly seemed that on her lips hovered the shadow of a weak and laboured smile.

From her tense mouth came out a word. In Vulcan too.

Phlox heard it clearly.

It was feeble, yet someway deafening.

It came off together with a faint, soft sigh, which to the doctor's ears resounded louder than the strongest of breaths.

"**Ha!**"

* * *

The girl looked around, at the others, as if searching for some confirmation in Harrad-Sar's face and in that of the Vulcan female and saw that their eyes, even those of the Orion man, even in his visible pain and depletion, were enlarged and astounded, fixed on the two men, on Hayes and on the other, lying on the soil blood-soaked by his blood.

And all the helmets were turned towards them.

She realized she had not mistaken. Hers hadn't been a hallucination.

The chest of the man, flat on his back against the ground under the odious Hayes, had moved.

He… had breathed.

She returned her eyes to the scene.

And….

Both she and the others were able to see it, clearly.

Beneath Hayes, leaning down over the dead enemy, on his flexed knees, with his phaser, and with his hand stretched forward, to the man's helmet… _the dead Commandant's chest was moving in breaths._

How the chest of a man who lives does.

* * *

The doctor changed his position. He sat himself on the floor, more comfortably.

So to speak.

He felt himself go limp, as T'Pol.

He stared at her, well aware that her eyes, no longer wide-open, no longer goggled, a bit, _just a tiny bit_, quieter, were seeing and watching. But not him. Certainly, not him.

He repeated to himself the word that T'Pol had uttered.

It meant "Yes."

But he had no time to get lost behind what that word signified, for real, beyond its literal meaning.

The battle the Vulcan was fighting had not ended yet.

She stiffened again and her breathing heightened again.

Her eyes, once again tense, alert, were watching.

Disquieted and intent.

* * *

Hayes perceived it, rather than actually heard it, but he could not realize that that sound, beneath him, was that of a wide-ranging breath coming out from the chest of the man upon whom he was stooping, nor that other breaths followed the first. He hadn't the time, wasn't able to understand.

Nor, least of all, he was able to finish his gesture.

* * *

The Vulcan jerked, abruptly and suddenly.

The doctor flinched, at her sharp and violent movement.

* * *

Hayes jerked, abruptly and suddenly.

He flinched, looking at his hand.

It had been stopped brusquely and forcefully.

Another hand had grabbed his wrist, stopping what his hand was about to do.

* * *

The girl jerked, abruptly and suddenly.

She flinched, staring at what she was seeing.

No one moved, no one reacted, at that sight, sudden and unexpected. And scary.

In front of the vision of a dead man who, all of a sudden, starts to breathe; in front of the sight of the hand of a dead man, that snaps up, violently and forcefully, from the death's frost where it should have remained immobilized forever... who ever could find the promptness, the strength, to react?

* * *

Amazed and incredulous, Hayes did not react.

With wide eyes he stared at the helmet's visor of the man beneath him.

Behind that visor two eyes were watching him.

Two scowling eyes and intensely blue.

And one, the one right, now in full view... was distorted. Was marred and disfigured by a deforming scar.

* * *

The doctor leaned forward.

What was going on?

What was that look on the face of T'Pol? What did she see?

Her visage looked distorted, so much was the intensity of her expression. It almost seemed to be deforming her face.

* * *

Hayes jolted, freeing his wrist with a nervous and overwrought sharp tug.

He sprang to his feet.

It was not possible!

His eyes weren't able to detach from those of the man. They couldn't believe what he was seeing; couldn't take for true, happening for real, that now that man - painfully, laboriously, with difficulty; _**incredibly!**_ - was endeavouring to get up.

No. It could not.

Yet ... the man was doing it!

And those eyes ...

THOSE EYES!

An irrational fear, primitive, indomitable, grabbed Hayes.

When you find yourself facing something that neither cruelty nor prevarication are able to dominate, whilst cruelty and prevarication are the only way that you know, your heart will drown in the lightless fear, and the only thing you will able to think to do, will be to erase what darkened your mind with an irrational dread, to make it cease to exist, without even thinking about possible explanations of its existence, without even lingering to think about what you could do, by trying to comprehend it.

You can be the strongest of men, you can brag about being the most cynical, the more disenchanted of men, but if you have not been able to emerge from the darkness that generated you, if you will continue to feed on that darkness, no light of reason will ever be able to really enlighten your pathway.

Cruelty and prevarication, the alibi of your fear and your insecurity, won't be able to protect you, when you will have to face the darkness you came from.

You will tremble and forget everything you are, everything you _think_ you are.

The dark depth of the primordial terror will claim you. It, your true dominator, will exact, _and will have_, his blind domination over you.

So it had been for men well superior to Hayes, in intellect and capabilities, and so it was for him.

Nothing he had thought, nothing of the smart and rational argumentations that he had made to himself before, existed anymore.

He knew, he was well aware of the rumours, querulous and trembling, which had circulated; of the murmurs filled with fear that had spread.

_Who had rescued the treacherous Vulcan female? Who could he be? Who, if not **him**?_

And he had laughed at those voices, at those murmurs of sissies. He had laughed scornfully at those tremulous whispers that gave back the body to a man whose body was lost for ever in the black nothingness.

And now…

He did not want that man! He would not, could not look at him, much less think to take him away with him.

_Simply, he did not want him!_

He did not want him, _**alive!**_

That man was dead.

It was not possible that he had risen from the shadow. And, if no one had been able to see his dead body, the first time, though only the impenetrable obscurity of death could have been his fate, this time yes. _This time yes!_

He and the others had seen his body!

And it was dead. DEAD!

And it was not possible that it, shot by his infallible hand, with the lungs motionless, drowned in their own blood, with the heart blocked in its vital beating, could resurrect from that shadow, from the shadow where already it should have been.

**It was not possible that that man, _dead twice_, _twice_ could emerge from the yawning chasm with no light and no return!**

Was not possible.

_It could not be possible!_

_**Had not to be possible!**_

He now belonged to the world of the dead and had to stay there!

Hayes yelled. His voice unrecognizable. Broken. Scratched. Cracked.

"Go away! **Go back in the shadow**!"

He aimed his phaser just against those blue eyes and piercing.

To delete them.

To make them disappear from his sight.

"**And there won't be for you a third time!**

* * *

By now Phlox did not worry over what he should have done. He had stopped burning his brain, endeavouring to guess if he had to intervene, with_ T'Pol_, or not.

Something that could be called resignation had taken in him the place of the anger and fear. It was strange, but it was so. And, even more strangely, he did not complained much of this, because this resignation, the unknown, _and relative_, quiet that it was able to give his mind, until a moment ago in perpetual turmoil, had also given him, had made him have again something that he no longer thought to possess.

The desire to know.

And...

Phlox lowered his head, unable to acknowledge - for real, in all its extent - such a sensation.

... and a sort of feeling participation.

How was it possible? But, on the other hand, how was it possible that between two such different beings (or maybe, in reality, to well see, not so much unlike?) as Tucker and T'Pol, had been formed that Bond? That Bond that resembled ... that looked like... _that maybe was_ ...

Phlox fumbled in his brain and in his memory, so tried, in those moments.

…_love._

He remembered. He had already had such thoughts, when he had begun to understand, but, certainly, not how now, not with the perception and clarity that he had now, not with such a completeness. That word had already budded in his mind, formerly, when Tucker was gone away and he was left alone with T'Pol, when, finally, she had slid into a sleep that, at that moment, had all the characteristics of a sleep truly restorative, truly restful, exactly what she needed, before becoming, for her, such a sort of nightmare. But now, in the face of what was happening, _in face of what he was seeing happen_, that word, and its meaning, and what lay really behind it, assumed sharpest outlines, much more clear-cut. And, above all, a very greater depth.

That word, speaking like General Tucker would do in his corrosive sarcasm, was not a threepenny word.

It was a word that dragged behind it a world, a whole world. An universe. Different from that with which he and everyone had to do, the sordid universe that was their own.

But, if so, regardless of whatever he could have thought before, really could one believe that in this sordid universe could exist, that word? _The thing it stood for?_

And nevertheless… eh yes… nevertheless once that word could be found in the books ... in… in the poems, yes ... of the dreamers. Everywhere. On Denobula, on Andoria, on Vulcan. Yes, even there. And, even... even on Earth.

But then, could it be that, long time ago, that _thing _existed, even if arduous to find? That people were in search of it, and then it had been forgotten, inevitably, submerged by the rising tide of an Empire useful, necessary, ineluctable in order to put a little regulation in this chaotic universe, but born under the sign of prevarication? And maybe even born in this way because the ruling evil in this universe could not be governed if not by means of bossiness, on pain of the end of everything in the chaos? Because, actually, that word, that thing, had been already blanked out from everyone's consciences, in the selfish fights blazing up in all worlds, among and inside all races, before the Humans' advent? Because the destiny of this universe couldn't be anything but selfishness and wickedness?

But... - Phlox snapped a quick and pensive glance at the vigilant eyes and restlessness of T'Pol - … and if, maybe, only maybe, it wasn't so? If there could be… hope?

Could it be for real, as he, with less knowledge, less awareness, less comprehension, had already thought before, that now that word, that thing, had come back? In the most unlikely of ways? Through the most unlikely of people?

Could it be for real - and now, in the light of what he had seen and was seeing unfold before his eyes, the strength of this thought, of this question, their implications, struck Phlox with a strength far greater than how it had happened to him before - that there, in front of him, despite the misery in which it appeared at that moment, there was ... _was struggling to fully reveal itself_… the hope for a different world?

But, there could be a different world?

A world where there could be room for hope?

_For that word? For that thing?_

_For… the love?_

Before... before - Phlox gasped under the impact of his sudden, unexpected, keen perception - before the Empire, its order, the universe itself that he knew, might collapse, destroyed just by the selfishness and wickedness, from which its dominator, the Human Empire, had been born and which it was no longer capable of controlling, of ruling? Destroyed in the collapse, under the rubble of the lopsided tower constructed by it to scale the stars?

So then ... if it was so ... no, no ... if ... if it was possible, or perhaps probable ... very probable... _highly_ probable... or maybe... _maybe practically certain_... that it was so, in this case, should he really think, should he believe, as, much less perceptibly and knowingly, he had previously thought and postulated, that he was observing, scrutinizing, perusing, the hope, the only hope there could be for the Empire? For its destiny? And consequently for the universe where he was born, that he wanted to continue to exist? On pain of the darkness of the disarray? The Empire for which he did not know alternatives, _was not able to imagine alternatives!_

Yeah, he wasn't able to. But, and if there was some alternative? If there was the possibility, _the hope_, for a different Empire?

After all, they had seen that there was another universe, where that word, that thing, from what he had been able to pick up from the incredulous and contemptuous chattering of those who had had access to the data base of the vessel coming from it, had the right to asylum. Maybe, well, maybe, T'Pol was not entirely wrong, maybe it could be possible to build a different world.

Sure, sure. Let's admit. But that other world, was a world without the Empire, and this was inconceivable, impossible.

And then, injustice, oppression, selfishness, wickedness, were anything but strangers to that world, to that other universe. Those others, those people who seemed people of this universe, but who were not… well, they spoke in one way, but in the finale acted in another, very similar to theirs, not to say same as theirs. The potency itself of the other ship, the one that came from the other universe, its destructive weapons, were the most obvious evidence.

That was certainly not a world without war.

Sure. However... however, apparently, from what he had heard, from what he could perceive and understand, in those others, in the fact itself that there, in the place of the Empire there was a confederation of worlds, although evidently in constant trouble - and how could it be otherwise? Without an Empire able to impose on all its own law? - …well, in them there was a desire, an aspiration, a tension to a different world.

A… a better world.

A world where could exist… _love_.

Oh yeah. Alright. But he, Phlox, and his travelling companions in this universe, the universe that was own of them, they were not those others; their brains, their way of life, were not those of those others, were their own; they were marked by _**this**_ universe, by _**their**_ universe. And... and he was not at all sure that he wanted to be different, that he wanted a different universe. Indeed, he didn't want such a universe!

He wanted to be him! Not another man! And, he was sure, none of the sons of this universe would want to be different from what he was.

Not even T'Pol! For sure!

She simply had wanted to liberate herself and her people and the other peoples - yes, this was true, although she had sought the help of non-Vulcans for obvious necessity - from the yoke of the Humans. But to do that, what had she done? She had betrayed, had deceived. She had coaxed, had acted, by the back-door, on the sleazy side of each one, also on him, and had thrown in the trash what she had used and that afterward had become no longer useful to her. Just, and above all - now Phlox was well aware of that – Tucker, to get whose help, fraudulently, she had even used herself, her body, the desire that she knew she was capable of arousing in him to then leave him to himself and his destiny.

She had behaved in the only way she knew, the only one that there could be for her, a daughter, she too, of this universe. Not of that other!

Nevertheless ... eh, nevertheless she had tried. She had attempted, had fought to seek an alternative. And she had paid. Hard. In the first person. And was still paying.

And, irony of lot, irony, wicked irony, of this wicked world, she was paying now, due to a tie, a Bond - born from her - that bound her, life and death, just to the one towards whom she had acted most badly, against whom she had committed the worst betrayal.

Tucker. Him

Yeah. Tucker. And him? Why this unsuspected double-game on his part? Why this secret alter-life, whose construction had certainly had to cost him untold efforts? What did he want? Force? Power? But he could pursue them, in the same way as all the others. He had the means to do it, the ability, intelligence, and surely he had had no shortage of opportunities.

So what? Where did he want to arrive? For what, why, had he got moving so much? Risking his life. Like now. Indeed to want to tell the whole, risking much more than his life.

Was… was he working, he too, for an alternative? Irrespective of the reasons, could it be that he, in his own way, in the only way that a man born under the sign of the Empire was able to know, along the only road he could go, the only one that could be allowed to him, was seeking, as T'Pol was doing for her and for Vulcans and for the other non-Humans by necessity, for an alternative? In his case, for an alternative to this kind of auto-destructive Empire? For … for its salvation? Could it be that he had understood the existence of such a peril? And if so, as a consequence of... of what? What could have marked his life to such an extent? That life of which, in hindsight, no one knew anything?

Phlox was unable to explain why, but the vision of Tucker's horrible scar emerged peremptorily in his mind.

And why Tucker - he, exactly he - had saved T'Pol? In what could she ever be useful to him in the dangerous game he was carrying out? Always that such an idea concerning a possible use of T'Pol in the game he was playing, had really touched upon his brain, because there was more behind this absurd behaviour on his part. Eh sure, because he had jeopardized his life to save her, and, to make her heal and recover, had saved him too, Phlox. Why all that? Because of the Bond? Okay, let's admit. But, and this was the point, the Bond could not be born without there having been on both sides - _**on both sides**_ - something that would justify its formation. Now, an attraction, of course, this, there was. But there is no beard of purely physical attraction that is capable of provoking the birth of a Bond, and… of such a type of Bond.

It is needed more, much more.

It is needed ...

_It **had been** needed that thing._

_It had been needed love._

Evil, perhaps, ill, the love that can arise only in this universe made of hate.

Yet still love.

Not for nothing the Vulcan Bond was legend, to such an extent that practically no one knew of it. Not for nothing it had its roots in the distant past of Vulcan, when the Vulcans were not afraid to be who they were - brave, strong, _emotional_, warriors, such that if they were still so at the time of their encounter with the Humans, probably they would have known how to counter them. How much stuff had they lost, the Vulcans, in their ascent to the logic! They had lost also their roots. They had lost - in the most stupid way - even that thing.

The love.

Yeah. Just so. Although, come to think, this had happened for reasons in a sense different from those of others, perhaps… nobler, yes, that was the term; and perhaps a little of that ancient nobility had remained stuck to T'Pol, since she had felt the exigency, the unexampled will, to try to fight for freedom. Maybe it was not a case that T'Pol was a Vulcan. Indeed, to be more correct… a Vulcan of other ages. A Vulcan of legend.

Legend.

Once again this term came to the mind of the physician.

Legend. T'Pol, a Vulcan of legend. As the Bond. As what she had attempted to do. As what she _had_ done. As what she was doing at this moment.

Legend; as the legends of a disappeared time, when the Vulcans hadn't yet ended up, they too as all the others, succumbing to this traitorous and malignant universe and to its violence. They were doubly losers, because they had lost the love for the sake of an ancient choice of life which eventually had made them fall as foolish puppets in the hands of the Humans and that in any case they had not been able to really pursue, by fragmenting in myriads of clans in perennial struggle with each other.

More and worse than how it had happened in their ancient past.

Surely, with much less fierceness. And with much less, much, much less nobility.

_And without the slightest trace of love._

And so, like all the others, and before the others, they had fallen prey to the Humans.

They, the Vulcans. So clever. So skilful. So perfect. _So logical_.

So different from what they had been in the days where the warrior princesses of their legends had existed, beautiful and strong and brave, as T'Pol had appeared in her struggle of legend in that cage of horror.

T'Pol…

A princess of ancient times.

A warrior princess.

A princess of legend.

Phlox had never thought of her in those terms. Would never have dreamed of doing it, would not even have been capable of that.

Before.

However ...

If he thought about how she'd fought in that cage of horror, about the desperate physical force and the fortitude, the strenuous dignity, that she had showed in that predicament... well, it wasn't difficult all in all to think of her as a legendary warrior princess, indeed he was sure that this was the impression that she had given to his compatriots, who had watched her in what was supposed to be her inglorious end, and that, instead, had ended up turning into some kind of apotheosis.

And… as the warrior princesses of the ancient ages of legends, T'Pol had been able to give again life and substance to _**that**_thing; and had tied to her, inextricably, a man, a Human, who seemed even to give physical shape on his face to the evil which deforms the soul.

The soul of the Human Empire.

Of _this_ Human Empire.

And that, perhaps, could change.

Phlox looked profoundly - pensive and amazed - into these bizarre thoughts thronging his mind.

A Human. An arrogant and scornful man of the Empire of men, tied, with his personal and concealed war, to an unveiled, disclosed, Vulcan warrior princess, who was fighting her own war. Tied to each other. Indissolubly. The Human and the Vulcan. In a common destiny in which, together, they could win, whereas, if isolated, they could only lose.

And all this because, between them, unexpectedly, incredibly, astoundingly, without even suspecting it, without even being able to conceive it, it had born _**that**_thing.

And, together with it, thanks to it, perhaps even... even…

Phlox tried to understand, to penetrate, if he would succeed, in the heart of the whirly flickering of thoughts and feelings that assailed him, without him being able to find any way to defend himself, to shield himself from them; thoughts and feelings that he had never felt, if not, very vaguely, in his distant youth; that he would never have believed that he might have again.

Was it so powerful, that Bond?

_Was it so powerful, the love?_

_To the point ... yes, to the point that it reverberated in some way also on him? To the point that it was able to make him feel those feelings? That sense of participation?_

_And could this happen even to others? Could it be that it was like a ripple on the water, which arises gentle and slight - unnoticed, unperceived - under the pressure of a light wind, almost imperceptible, but persistent, more and more high, and thus, little by little, the ripple spreads over the whole surface, until this becomes wavy, and choppy - and alive - in its entirety? _

And if it was so powerful, could it be that... could it be _really_ possible that...

The shadow of such a thought, the very faint shadow, if compared with the clear-cut clarity it was reaching now, had already touched Phlox's conscience, sluggishly and lazily coming back to life, when his brain had began to connect with each other the various tesseras of the mosaic that was proving his eyes. But now ... now ... there was a lot more in that thought, than all there could have been before.

_Could it be that... that Tucker and T'Pol, together, - Together. And only together! - could be the Empire's hope?_

_That in them, in them both, tied to each other by the Bond, by their… their love, unknown even to them, it would lie… the Empire's destiny?_

Incapable of managing, of dealing with such sensations, with such thoughts, so unfamiliar, so foreign to him, the doctor focused - _focused fiercely_ - on the situation, on the way he had to act. He needed things more down to earth, more consistent with what he was, with the Phlox who simply wanted to live and survive.

If he had intervened, the Bond between T'Pol and Tucker, it was now evident, could get broken and T'Pol would have gone crazy, at best, or dead, at worst, which meant that, if Tucker had returned, he, Phlox, would pay the price, but also that, if Tucker did not go back, he would remain at the mercy of those Aliens. And, also in this case, he would pay the price.

If he had not intervened, T'Pol could go crazy or die, in case Tucker had died, wherever he was. And he, Phlox, would remain even in this case at the mercy of the Aliens and would be thrown out the window, just to talk soft.

But if he had not intervened and, miraculously, T'Pol had remained alive because _Tucker_ had remained alive, then he could still nourish some hope - _Hope, again hope!_ - to wriggle out of this derisive fate, obviously as long as the mind of T'Pol, already sorely tried by what she had gone through, was able to hold on.

Oh, really a good situation, nothing to say. But in any case things were so.

The only…yes, the only _hope_ for him was that T'Pol could in some way, he did not know how, protect Tucker, who, it was clear, was in big trouble, but apparently - thanks to the Supreme Healer! No. Thanks to T'Pol. Thanks to this Bond of legend - not dead. At least apparently not yet.

And, to make it that things may go in this way, he could not - _had not to_ – intervene; he had only to hope – _Again! Again this word!_ - that the strength of Tucker ... _the strength of T'Pol_ ... were sufficient; that the strength, good or bad, that, where everything he had fantasized in _his fanciful fantasies_, all in all anything but _fanciful_, about the past and present of the self-styled _simple_ Chief Engineer was really true, the strength that he must have had and couldn't not have even now, had its counterpart in the strength of T'Pol.

Certainly, about the fact that T'Pol's strength was great, there could be no doubt: just look at how she had been able to cope, in the spirit and body, the abhorrent fate to which she had been destined to succumb, in that cage of horror. But now she had to find in herself, and just when she had hardly started to recover from the wounds that that strenuous fight had let in her soul and in her flesh, the strength to safeguard Tucker, from a distance, and, in addition, also the strength to withstand the emotions that were so hard distressing her.

And where - consciously or unconsciously - she had succeeded in all this, she would also have to be strong enough to recover from this further, extremely powerful physical and psychological trauma.

For her own salvation, sure.

And, ultimately, also for that of him, Phlox.

A nice pile of frail…_of frail hopes_, there was no denying it.

But until now, incredibly, every hope, every unspoken hope, that he had seen running on the face, actions, behaviour of T'Pol, seemed to have been translated into reality.

So why not continue to hope?

Why not continue to hope that the strength of T'Pol was really so great? Or, to be more correct, that she was able to find in the strength of Tucker, if what he knew about the legendary Vulcan Bond corresponded even partially to reality, her own strength? The strength she needed? Just as Tucker himself could do? In a mutual and mysterious, unfathomable support?

It was a Bond of legend, wasn't it?

And legends have no limits.

As hope.

_And so -_ he raised his head again – _let's hope._

What he had to do was simply to stay to look at her.

And to wait.

So he did this.

He looked at T'Pol; and into her hope. And into his own

He followed the drama that was unfolding before his eyes.

The rest did not matter, could not. Like all the thoughts that had piled up in his brain in a nano-hundredth of a second.

What really mattered was what was happening in front of him.

There, before him, in the acts, gestures, expressions of T'Pol's visage, he was able to read and decipher the evolution of events, of the fight to the death that surely at that time Tucker was fighting somewhere in the universe.

And of the fight with no quarter that T'Pol was fighting there, in that room, with Tucker and for Tucker. _Which was like saying for herself._

And for him, too.

And perhaps... for the Empire.

And now the Vulcan had changed expression again, she was appearing upset, one more time. _Awfully upset._

She breathed harshly, with difficulty.

Her hands tormented the edge of her hospital gown.

Tears - tears, yes - were rolling down her cheeks. Aplenty. Her lips were wet by them.

She… was sobbing.

Was babbling.

_Was pleading._

"**Save him!**"

Phlox lowered his head again.

Hope, hope.

Hope.

* * *

**End of chapter ten**

_TBC_

* * *

_**Hope, hope.**_

_**Hope.**_

_**The Hope of the Empire.**_


	11. Chapter 11 The Strength of Women

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Eleven**

_**The Strength of Women**_

* * *

_Just like that. The strength of women._

_Is there anyone who doubts they are strong?_

_They are strong, tremendously and __**splendidly**__ strong. _

_It's their strength that allows life._

_It's their strength that can change the world._

_I am sure my dear friend __**Linda**__, who once again wanted to help me with her gorgeous work as a Beta, is in complete agreement with me._

* * *

**oooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

* * *

T'Pau flinched, dazed and puzzled.

What was that? Her mind? Tested to the extreme? Possible. Indeed more than possible. Greatly probable, not to say certain. Her brain, even more than her body, was failing. There are limits beyond which the spirit, even more than the flesh, is not able to go.

It was as if a silent yet deafening cry of invocation resonated in her brain. Desperate. Piercing.

T'Pau did not understand, neither what was happening to her, nor the words which that scream without a voice was telling her, even though the meaning was absolutely clear; and nor even if her mind, prostrate as and more than her body, was simply inventing that scream, that supplication full of anguish. But she felt perfectly the agony with which it was overflowing, the despair that filled it, whether it was simply a hallucination of her brain tested beyond all possibilities, or not.

And she felt she could not ignore that desperate plea. It was like a lash that forced her to act.

_She had to, absolutely had to, stop the murderous hand of that despicable, sickening Human. Of Hayes._

The Earth soldiers would not have stopped her. Their eyes and their minds were fixed on their General and on the man, who had come out of nowhere, had sunk into nothingness, had resurrected from nothing and was now on the verge of falling back into nothingness. _At last. Hopefully._ T'Pau could almost touch the soldiers' thoughts. Their powerful emotions submerged her Vulcan sensitivity.

Illogical? Yes, of course! Even supposing that she could succeed in achieving her aim, that she could be able to find the strength she needed to throw herself against Hayes and to stop him, that man would have died, killed by Hayes immediately after her futile attack, which would have served only to infuriate Hayes. Nothing more.

But… and so what? She knew she should die, just like that man, just like Harrad-Sar. But maybe she would have been killed immediately, maybe Hayes would take revenge on her so, in that way, angrily and forthwith, sparing her what she knew he would do of her.

Better to die like that. Right away. Than ... than...

Better that way. _Better that way!_

And then, perhaps, if she had been able to act in the right way, the wrath of Hayes would have been such as to explode even against Harrad-Sar.

T'Pau knew he was lying to herself about Harrad-Sar. He was coveted prey, he was flesh for the Empress, was not ... was not, like her, flesh for Hayes.

But she could not bear the idea that Harrad-Sar...

No, she could not stand the thought of the torments that he would have to undergo.

And this was a further reason to risk it. At least, if she had died right away, whereas Harrad-Sar wouldn't and he would have to follow his horrible fate, the vision would be spared to her, the direct knowledge, of what ... they would have done to him.

So, go! Come on! GO!

T'Pau let go of the sore Harrad-Sar and stood up in a flash. Though wounded and exhausted as she was, she dashed forward. Towards Hayes. And towards the man lying on the ground whose life was about to be definitively snapped by the homicidal wrath of that savage beast in the form of man.

She rushed ahead in a fury.

But she was too far away.

* * *

Her Highness Hoshi Sato was on the rocks. She was even sweating. She was no longer even able to control herself.

"Damned! Come on! What are you waiting for? There is no longer time! Take them! All! Now! Teleport them all here! Right now. NOW!"

* * *

Harrad-Sar flinched, dazed and puzzled.

What was that? It seemed his head was ringing with a sort of silent shout. It was as if a voice without words were desperately yelling to him to do something, to save that man.

Harrad-Sar did not understand, or perhaps…

Sure. It was him himself. Per force. What else, if not that? He was giving body to the shadows. His brain, tried out to the extreme, worn out, as and perhaps more than his body itself, was being lost. That despairing and distressing invocation was the voice of him, of himself, of the urge of his will to react, to rush to the aid of that unknown man who had tried to save him... and his petite Vulcan.

A flash of light, perhaps even this malevolent, in this malevolent universe to which all of them belonged.

But still a light.

That now was about to be switched off forever.

And that he did not want were turned off.

Yes. It was the urge of his will.

Of his _impotent _will.

He no longer had strength. He was hurt, bleeding, exhausted, and, as much the Earth soldiers were now all absorbed in observing their General on the point of driving back, once and for all and definitively, that man into the darkness from which he had returned and as much he was aware that no one of them now would have enough focus and presence of mind to think to promptly stop him, he could not do anything.

His mind ordered his body to get up, but his body disobeyed.

He grunted in frustration.

Oh certainly. He knew perfectly well that even if he had managed to stop the hand of Hayes, that man, like him and like T'Pau, would then die, all of them, equally, killed in the most cruel way. But it did not matter.

_Did not matter! _

Perhaps, in that way, Hayes would be pushed to kill him right away, blinded by rage, sparing him what he should have endure, afterward. Or at least, even if this hadn't happened, maybe it could befall to T'Pau to die right away. And this ... this would save her from what was in store for her.

But his body refused to be yet massacred by his crazy mind!

Damn body! Damn Empire! Damn Hayes! Damn…

But damn body, what? His body was smarter than his brain! He was too far away. Before he could get to throw himself on Hayes, still assuming that he were able to find the strength to do so, that man would already be dead, killed by Hayes and Hayes or his men would notice him and he would be blocked.

Harrad-Sar grunted again in the most fierce annoyance, but the grunt died on his lips.

He felt T'Pau let go of his head, and then, right after, he saw her stand up in a trice and fling forward. Towards the man and the damn Hayes.

To do - to attempt to do - what he could not.

But she, like him, was too far away.

Harrad-Sar imprecated loud, in an even more deeply thwarted exasperation.

Even if T'Pau had the strength, she would not have had time and what applied to him, also applied to her.

Hayes would have had plenty of time to kill the man and also to notice her, he or his men.

She too would be blocked.

And wouldn't be killed.

She would live.

To become palpitating flesh for Hayes.

* * *

The Empress' heart was a steaming lump foaming with rage and frustration. "I do not grant you a second longer! I want here - right now! Immediately! - Harrad-Sar, that Vulcan female and that man! THAT CAPTAIN! ALIVE!"

* * *

The Orion girl flinched, dazed and puzzled.

What was that? She did not understand. But she was sure. She wasn't deceiving herself.

She had heard it. Inside her mind.

A cry. A shriek. Despairing. Ripping. Ear-splitting.

And beseeching.

And yet imperious.

"_**Save him!**_

It was not possible to shirk its recall, its pressing, desperate demand.

* * *

Mayweather would have liked to restrain the Empress, but he himself was almost unable to control himself. And, after all, she was right.

There was no more time, it was no longer possible to wait. Hayes ... that idiot was going to ruin everything. Including himself. Killing that man! But what had taken hold of Hayes' brain?

That man, that bastard dressed as a Captain of the Élite Guard, that unknown soldier with that strange Lirpa, who by some incredible witchcraft had managed to survive the deadly fire of that brainless war machine of Hayes, did not have to die.

He had to live.

He had to fall alive into the hands of the Empress.

Into _his_ hands.

More, much more than Harrad-Sar himself.

Because that man could have been extremely helpful, could have known a lot of useful things.

But above all because… it could even have been that it was not that one, the first witchcraft of resurrection accomplished by that man.

* * *

That man ... that man did not have to die.

That man was scary. As Hayes. Perhaps more than Hayes. She knew that. She had seen how he had cut off the head of that soldier. In one sweep. With his deadly weapon. And she could still feel the pain of his punch.

But that man did not have to die.

She did not understand, she didn't know why, but she knew – _she felt_ - that he did not have to die.

And without even knowing what she would do, without realizing that, some steps, not a few, behind her, someone else was hurling himself in the same direction, the Orion girl lunged forward.

Towards the horrible Hayes.

Toward that man.

And she was very close. Practically on top them.

* * *

Mayweather could no longer restrain himself. Not even the cold serpent he was could do it.

The screen showed merciless everything which was happening over there, on the square in front of the Temple, just as it had done until then. He was tempted to order the breaking of the radio silence, but he could not, it was not possible for him to skip so, with both feet, the will of the Empress, which was, on the other hand, his own will. Too dangerous to keep open the radio communications. Damn! Damn! **Damn damn!** And then, with those tremendous bursts of energy coming from the planet, would they work? And Hayes, blinded as he seemed to be in his brain, would he have heeded the order to stop?

Hayes! Imbecile! An instant yet and he would eliminate that man. Only an instant and then...

_Wait! And this?_

"Look!" His voice rose suddenly, mingling with the scream yelled by the Empress. "Watch!"

In the midst of the soldiers, inert, almost like dazed, the girl with the green skin of the Orions had jumped forward, towards Hayes, and…

It was a matter of a blink.

* * *

An eye blink. Even less. Hayes' finger tightened. The trigger snapped. His weapon fired.

_In the air._

* * *

T'Pol jumped to grab the hand of Phlox. She was awake. Wide awake!

"He's safe! Is ... is ..." Her eyes filled with tears. "But not quite yet!"

She threw herself into the arms of Phlox, who remained stupefied.

She sought consolation! T'Pol wanted consolation!

Uncomfortably, with difficulty, not knowing what and how to do it, how to behave, Phlox, not even realizing that he was doing it, made her lean her head on his chest and then brought his hand to her nape.

And he began to stroke her hair, untidy and tousled.

With clumsy sweetness!

His voice resonated low – strange, unknown - into his ears. "He will manage to save himself, T'Pol."

She lifted her head to look at him with those eyes bright with tears. "He is hurt. Deeply. He bleeds. Death has not loosened its grip on him. And he is suffering. Is in pain. Tremendously. And is alone. Over there."

Phlox wondered where it was that "over there". But he said nothing.

"Phlox!"

The doctor looked wide-eyed at T'Pol, surprised to hear his name uttered by her in that way.

As a cry for help.

She buried again her head on his chest.

Her voice was heard between sobs. "He... He mustn't die, Phlox! I..." - T'Pol clung trembling to Phlox. – "I want him back here. Safe and sound. Here. With me."

What was going on? WHAT WAS GOING ON!?

What was happening to T'Pol? And to him? To him, who found himself whispering into the ear of T'Pol: "He will manage to save himself, T'Pol. And will return here. With you."

T'Pol nodded, clutching at him even more. To seek protection. Reassurance.

And Phlox continued to softly caress her hair. Trying to reassure her.

The universe was getting topsy-turvy.

And the cause - _one half of the cause_ - was there, in his arms.

While the other half of the cause ...

Phlox frowned, his brain in chaos.

He continued to keep with gentleness T'Pol on his chest.

* * *

Without understanding, Hayes rolled on the ground.

He shook himself immediately, looking amazed at the young Orion lying upon him.

She .. she had bumped into him! She had launched herself against him causing him to fall! Preventing him from hitting that bastard!

His eyes, incredulous and furious, stared from behind the visor of his helmet into the wide open eyes of the girl.

He saw the flash of terror that gleamed in them. And she was quite right!

* * *

What had she done? What had she done? Was she crazy? **Was she crazy? **

She .. she had thrown herself on Hayes! Against him! She had made him fall to the ground! She had prevented him from doing what he wanted to do! _**She had marked her fate!**_

* * *

Harrad-Sar raised himself on his knees, despite the pain and exhaustion.

He stood watching open mouthed.

The girl... the Orion girl…

He had not noticed it, he had been too absorbed in observing _his_ Vulcan girl, but she had launched herself into the same mad undertaking of T'Pau.

And she had succeeded! She had wrong-footed Hayes! She had managed to prevent him from killing the man!

But now…

Harrad-Sar clenched wrathfully his lips and his fists.

Now she...

* * *

And now she was going to die!

The pitiless hand of Hayes clutched her throat.

Her feeble hands could not detach his steel fingers.

She couldn't breathe.

Her view started getting blurred.

She would die.

* * *

Harrad-Sar felt his blood boil.

His body... his damn body! His…

_T'Pau! She was onto Hayes!_

* * *

_*__No! You won't do it!*_

T'Pau pushed her effort to the extreme. Her legs flew.

* * *

The soldiers!

They were recovering! Their weapons sprang up to shoot T'Pau!

His body...** his body had to obey him!**

* * *

T'Pau dived forward.

* * *

His body obeyed.

_He was still Harrad-Sar!_

He jumped to his feet, he leapt toward a soldier, the closest, he grabbed his neck and broke it, with one hand only and easily, he grasped the soldier's weapon while he was falling down, he levelled the weapon, he fired.

With careful precision.

With effective and lethal rapidity.

The fire of Harrad-Sar hushed forever the few soldiers still alive.

Surprised, disbelieving and totally unprepared to fight against the fire of a man who should not have done - _could not have done_ - such a thing, they fell down.

One after the other.

In a flash.

Not one of them could have spoken anymore.

* * *

T'Pau swooped like a fury onto Hayes.

* * *

Mayweather's eyes were staring in disbelief at the screen, as well as those of all the others.

He did not make it anymore. To hell with the _'necessary and official'_ respect for that slut of an Empress! He had to act! There are times in which the snake has to come out in the open.

And there are times when every caution must be banned!

"Go down! Just above the square! Do not care about whether the vessel can explode! Up close, you can more easily grip them so as to teleport them here! And do not you dare say that you can not do! I... The Empress accepts no imitations!"

The Empress said nothing. She did not turn against him.

She was gazing, petrified, at the screen.

* * *

Hayes was pushed away by the impact, and again rolled along the ground without understanding.

But his training didn't betray him.

Once again he shook instantly and stood up in a huff. His weapon aimed, he turned around in a flash, toward the spot of collision, to realize what had happened and to target whoever had hit him.

Next to the Orion girl, who, on the ground, on her back, was trying to breathe again between the fits of coughing, there was the Vulcan female.

She was crouching, with the knees flexed.

She looked a tiger.

And, like a tiger, was watching him. With a look… Vulcan or not, hers was a look of hatred.

That look, somehow, pushed Hayes to think again coldly. It awakened in him the Hayes of always.

The women… someone ... maybe ... yes, just _that_ man… had told him that they would be his downfall.

_That man_…. whose stunning identification had dragged him to...

Hayes grinned to himself. Sometimes the tension plays strange tricks, can push you to lose your temper, to act rashly, irrationally. But a strong spirit, like his, is always able to recover promptly.

Just an adequate stimulus.

Like that woman. That Vulcan female.

She was more than an adequate stimulus, she promised to be spectacular, the best stimulus to make his mind go back to work with cold and rapid lucidity. Women, his downfall? What a hooey! Women made him stronger and more acute, were pressuring him to be ruthlessly shiny because his brain became more lucid and more merciless than it already was when forcing them to give him what he wanted from them.

Their body and their soul.

And their torment.

_His pleasure._

His downfall. Ah! Bullshit! Women were his pleasure, this was what they were, and, the more rebellious and dangerous they were, the greater was the pleasure he was capable of drawing from them. He was very on the ball, in this.

That tiger in the shape of a Vulcan female would have perfectly noticed!

She wouldn't die, not now, wouldn't succeed in escaping her fate, as, presumably, she had hoped it could happen, thinking, on the basis of his previous… a little too vehement behaviour, to be able to make explode an even more violent reaction on his part, to the point of killing her.

But it was not so, she had… _underestimated_ herself. She would live.

For his pleasure.

But that man, no. He would die. Right now. Despite the… baffling and awkward frenzy that the sight of _those eyes, the eyes of that man, _had sparked in Hayes, his brain had not reasoned bad, hadn't temporarily gone crazy. His brain had simply automatically suggested to him the best thing to do.

That man – '_**that'**__ man -_ had to die, that for sure. If he had brought him back to the Empress alive, there was a risk – more than a mere risk, in truth - that the Empress could make herself ensnared by him. Everyone knew the fascination he exerted… _had _exerted… over women. Including the Empress. There had been clear evidence of this, before she became the Empress. He could not admit that that man, who somehow had made a fool of him, could stay alive. He had to get back in the shadows that had spewed him off. Even because… well, even because Hayes… didn't like having to do with ghosts.

And even the Orion girl would die. She would pay with death for her cockiness. Stupid girl! What had she thought to do? He would have done without her. The Earth and the universe were full of randy Orion females.

But of Vulcan females, no. As if what that Vulcan girl looked to promise being **_more_** than an ability merely possible on her part to give him oodles of pleasure wasn't yet enough, they, the Vulcan women, were a rare commodity and therefore, even more so, that Vulcan female shouldn't die. At least, not now. Later in time.

_After he had tasted the ineffable pleasure of transforming that look of hate into a look of entreaty._

His voice rang out mocking. "Futile effort, sweet maiden. It will not help you either to save the Orion girl, nor your failed saviour. And it won't help you to get killed ahead of time, if this was your purpose. You know, I like courageous women. They are more… ardent."

"My ardour will burn you."

"It will be a pleasure being burned by your ardour."

"I will kill you, Hayes. Sooner or later I will."

"Oh oh, what a way for a Vulcan to speak! I do not deserve so much!"

"You deserve death!"

"And you some healthy course of educational and practical training. What do you say? We could think of some _intensive_ courses on the part of my soldiers. They are very savvy in this field. You would arrive to take care of me… well prepared."

* * *

His body gave way. More, it could not do.

It had done all it could do.

But it had been useless.

Harrad-Sar watched from a distance T'Pau, who, crouched on the floor with her knees bent, seemed to be speaking with Hayes. In spite of what she had done, apparently Hayes did not seem to want to kill her.

She would live. In torment.

Hayes was not going to do what _he_, Harrad-Sar, _the Great Harrad-Sar_, had not had the courage to do when he had taken possession of the weapon with which he had killed the soldiers and that now he no longer had the strength to handle.

He had used all the strength which had remained to him. His life was going away.

Harrad-Sar slid to the floor and closed his eyes.

His blood was flowing plentifully. It would not take much to die.

T'Pau, no. She would live.

A life of pain.

He should have shot her, not the soldiers. But he had not been able. Because...

_Because ..._

Death makes you think strange things. Uncommon. Unusual.

_Because he was fond of her. So strong. Yet so small. So fragile. A child. To protect. _

And by reason of the first act of true affection of his whole life, the object of his affection would have lived a life of torment.

A long, very long life of torment and humiliation for dying a far off day in torment and despair.

No. No and no! This did not have to happen! _**Did not have to happen!**_

As the darkness was more and more enveloping, Harrad-Sar's mind seemed to be getting arched, as if it was spasmodically trying to remain vivid a little yet, to desperately attempt to launch a silent, impossible, appeal to T'Pau.

_She knew. He knew that she knew, that she had realized what he had done._

_*T'Pau! Child! Come on! There is still a way! There's still a way! Come on, girl. Make him enraged. Do not give him time to think about it. __**Show him his failure!**__*_

* * *

"Your soldiers, Hayes? What soldiers?"

"My petite, the soldiers who..."

The sneering look that took the place of the look of hatred in the eyes of the woman, choked the words in Hayes' throat.

His soldiers. _His soldiers._ Why hadn't his soldiers halted the Vulcan?

Suddenly he realized the silence.

The noises of the fires and the collapses.

Sure.

But there were no voices.

Nobody was speaking.

No shout of a man. _Of a soldier_

His gaze rose. Looked beyond the two women.

_His soldiers!_

_And Harrad-Sar!_

* * *

All the soldiers!

All lying on the ground!

Inert.

Dead!

As most likely Harrad-Sar!

And as almost certainly also that man, the one who had had in his hand that strange Lirpa. He no longer had moved; he was lying motionless on the ground. She would know who he was only in his death. Her suspicion would be solved only by watching his cold, dead features.

Hayes! Fault of Hayes!

He would pay the greatest price! And if that man was who she thought he was, Hayes would pay a price even higher!

The Empress hissed in the most total and gloomiest silence. "If in thirty seconds they will not be teleported here, all of them, be they dead or alive, what Hayes will have to undergo…"

The Empress stopped and got up, looking around with icy eyes. "No. What that treacherous whore, T'Pol, had to and will have to - **will have to!** - undergo, will be nothing compared to what will have to be endured by you."

* * *

"He does not move, Phlox, does not move! Is inert on the ground. He does not make it! Death is claiming him back!"

T'Pol trembled violently in the arms of Phlox.

And he did not know what to do.

Finally, he cried.

With anger.

"Move it, damn! Wherever you are! Don't you see how you are reducing..." - The words flowed spontaneously from the lips of Phlox – "... your T'Pol?"

* * *

T'Pau stood up. "You better kill me, Hayes. Right now."

The baffled eyes of Hayes rested on her.

"I shall tell all, o great warlord. Not even by cutting my tongue to keep me from talking and my hands to prevent me from writing will you be able to stop me. I will be capable of finding who will want to listen to me."

T'Pau's eyes glistened with real perfidy. "It is said that the powerful Empress' paramour wants to be aware of everyone and everything. It is reported that even the prisoners must pass through his sieve."

Hayes's eyes seemed to want to squirt out of the visor. "Damn bitch!" He levelled up his phaser. "I will..."

"**I had warned you that women would be your undoing."**

* * *

_**The man!**_

The Empress, Mayweather, everyone were on their feet to watch the screen.

Only the pilot and technicians were not watching, sweaty in performing their work. They were succeeding in what they were doing. In 20 seconds the ship would have flown over the square and they could take General Hayes and all the others that the Empress wanted.

But at that moment neither she nor her gigolo seemed to pay attention to what the coaching staff and the pilot were doing.

Their attention was completely absorbed by that man.

_Who suddenly had risen up and now was there, bleeding, standing upright, in the same place where he had fallen, many steps behind where Hayes stood now, with his feet planted upon the ground soaked in his own blood. _

_Who kept his right arm raised above his head and outstretched backwards._

_Who, with it, brandished his Lirpa._

_Like a spear._

* * *

_**End of Chapter Eleven**_

_**To Be Continued**_

**oooooooooooooooooooo**

_Yes, women are strong, my friends._

_Strong, like T'Pau._

_Strong even when they do not know they are, like the little girl of Orion, who has no name._

_They are strong, even when they show – seem to show - their weakness. What, __**in appearance**__, is their weakness._

_Like T'Pol._

_Their strength moves the world._

_From their strength, it's born life._

_**And can be reborn.**_


	12. Chapter 12 Wars

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Twelve**

**_Wars_**

* * *

_My friends, have you ever thought about how many kinds of wars there can be?_

_No?_

_Well, if you like, read this chapter. I think that it can be very useful to make you aware of what your friend Asso intends to say._

* * *

**ooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

He perceived only a hissing sound, brief and powerful.

Did not have time to turn around, to realize with his own eyes what his mind had already sensed without having the time to fully understand it.

He could not to put a face to _those_ words.

Did not have time to see even from afar _those _eyes behind the visor.

**That **eye.

Distorted, deformed. Furrowed by a disfiguring scar.

And blue.

And bloodshot.

He had time only to perceive that hiss.

Nothing more.

Hayes did not even notice that his head was been lopped off.

He died so.

With the head severed from his neck. In one shot.

Without realizing it.

Without even understand what was that sudden obscurity, that frost; why ever in that chilling darkness he could clearly see them. Two eyes. The soulful eyes of his ill-treated, neglected, despised, lover of all time. Of Corporal Cole.

Of Amanda.

Just an instant.

Then everything fizzled out in the tenebrous noiseless chill.

Even those gaping yelling eyes.

* * *

"**Yes! Yes! Yesss! He is alive! Is alive, is alive, is alive! And is strong! Strong, strong, strong! STRONG!**"

Phlox looked dumbstruck at T'Pol. _Afraid_, he stared at her.

She had wriggled out of his embrace of a sudden, had raised her arms to heaven, her beautiful face twisted in an expression of unbounded joy. Overwhelming. _Savage_.

She had shouted. And was screaming yet. With a voice beyond recognition. Happy. _Wildly _happy. "**HE IS ALIVE!**"

T'Pol's voice went down, in one with her arms. Unpredictably, it resounded oddly calm. Assertive. And satisfied. _And smug_. So it was. "And he is strong."

Her visage, streaked with tears, looked transformed. It was… impassioned. "He will return."

Her voice lowered to a blissful whisper. "He will come back to me."

Then, her expression changed again. It went back irrepressibly wild.

T'Pol clenched her fists, her voice dropped even more. It was a fierce murmur. Hissing. _Scary._

Her eyes sparkled with ferine delight.

"And he will bring to me on a silver plate, one after another, in trophy, in pledge of Ashaya, the severed heads of his enemies. _Of my persecutors_."

* * *

*_Omne Trinum est perfectum._*

Oh yeah, how true.

With three severed heads, he had reached perfection.

Who knows? Maybe, in time, he could have improved even more. There were at least two heads yet waiting.

Those of the Empress. And of Mayweather.

His _true_ enemies.

_The persecutors of T'Pol._

All in good time. Now there was something else to do.

He had almost made it. Barely, but it was so.

Unless...

Tucker shivered unconsciously.

He glanced quickly at the inert Harrad-Sar. Couldn't help but sigh with relief. The Orion looked still breathing. Scarcely, sure. However the pirate was yet alive. Certainly, though, not yet for a long time.

It was necessary to hurry.

The ball had not to get out of hand.

Tucker covered at a run the short distance that separated him from the lying body of Hayes and from his severed head.

In falling to the ground, it had slipped out from the helmet and now its dead eyes were staring at the sky without seeing it.

Those eyes would see anything nevermore.

_How the hell had he done?!_

Being successful in using the Lirpa that way, like a spear, and in chopping away the head of that worm so, with it, in one fell swoop.

But for that matter, how the hell had he done to be still alive? How the hell **_could he_** be still alive?!

What had been... what had been that calling ... that force ... that ... that... the devil knew what it was... which he had felt ... which had called him...?

Which had brought him back.

From the dark where he had sunk.

How the hell did he, now, to be alive, and to think, and act, and run, with all that blood he was losing, with that wound that tore his body from behind and... and with that pain ... _that excruciating pain_ ... which took his breath away?

Which drove him crazy.

Oh to hell! To hell. Yes. As so many other things in his life. What was that, if not just one of the many, inexplicable, things which had befallen him in this life?

What differentiated this one from the others?

It was inexplicable, okay. And wasn't his whole life so? Hadn't it been and wasn't still so, his life? As him himself, for that matter. What he was. All he had done. And he wanted to do.

As... what he had done for T'Pol. For that bitch, treacherous and deceitful.

Who had entered into his veins.

And this was the most inexplicable of all things.

Inexplicable.

*_Inexplicable._*

Just like the way he could feel her... even now ... *_even now_* ... so strong, so powerful ... within himself.

Maybe it was true. Perhaps it was just true. That woman, that bitch, was really a witch. A sorceress. An enchantress.

Maybe he was really been bewitched.

By her.

_*Oh stop it! Idiot! Imbecile! Moron! Take heed to what you do! You will ask her after – after! - in the event you come back, and successful, if she is really a bewitching witch. You'll entice that Vulcan doll into proving this to you 'in person'. So see you to come back. Do not be distracted by trivial things at this time.* _

Tucker stooped to pick up his Lirpa, then got up, while looking fleetingly one last time at Hayes' severed head.

He sneered nastily.

_*Keep your head on your shoulders, Tucker.*_

* * *

Delirium.

Phlox suddenly understood.

Imbecile! Imbecile that he was not else!

T'Pol was delirious!

She... yes ... she perceived - _she saw_ - what was happening, indeed she was literally part of all that. But, at this point, she could no longer stand it. Her body, her mind had been tremendously tried and now, that thing, that Bond, forced her, this was the term, forced her into something she could not longer withstand.

Her Vulcan spirit, her most profound, her truest being, hidden in the folds of her ancestral essence, had come to light, driven by that Bond, but she was not, for real, an ancient Vulcan female. Her mind, her neural control, were not those of an ancient Vulcan, of the days when the Vulcan males brought to their females, to conquer them, to make them their prey, _on a silver plate, one after another, in trophy, in pledge of Ashaya_, the fierce love of the antique Vulcans, the severed heads of the suitors who had been defeated in their mortal love strifes.

T'Pol was, perhaps, really a relived warrior princess of ancient times. What she had done, her indomitable courage, the behaviour itself she showed at those moments, even her savage sentences, could be a proof. Not to mention the Bond.

But she was imprisoned in a body and a mind of a Vulcan of now.

The primitive and wild madness of her ancestry would break her mind.

She would come out destroyed.

This was not to be.

And... yes... not simply because he did not want to die, atrociously, under the cruel blows that would have felled on him for the revenge that Tucker - who, to hear T'Pol, would, could, come back - would make devastating fall on him, although, in reality, about that, he should not have been afraid, so to speak, because if what he thought of the Bond that united Tucker to T'Pol was true, Tucker himself could have come out destroyed by the destruction of T'Pol and could not have done anything bad to him, which did not mean it could not have been the Romulans to take the trouble to do of him what of him would be done by Tucker. Phlox knew that. His life was linked to the life of T'Pol in every case.

The fact was... the real truth was that he... he would not, could not allow, that T'Pol were breaking.

Just so.

He did not want.

Phlox sent to hell all his previous arguments, all his fears, his uncertainties.

He took T'Pol's wrist. Gently. He did it so.

He looked at her with calm and quiet strength. Just like a doctor should do.

With calm and quiet strength, he spoke to her. "Quiet, T'Pol."

He put his hand on her shoulder. "He will do all this for you. But, now..."

He delicately squeezed her shoulder. Her madly glittering eyes were watching him intent. Did she understand? Was she able to interiorize what he said? "Now, T'Pol, let you be cured. It is necessary you to be quieted. Let me do that."

T'Pol suddenly snapped back, freeing her shoulder from his soft grip.

She looked at him with eyes burning of savagery; gnashed her teeth.

"T'Pol, please…"

T'Pol growled at him.

How could he do? How could he make sure that she could comprehend, that she let him do? That she didn't rebel, didn't senselessly try, in her delirium, to use against him a Vulcan strength she no longer had?

"T'Pol, let me do that."

In T'Pol's throat it started to gurgle a dull grumble.

Phlox looked at her, uncertain. It was repugnant to him the idea to coerce her by force. For what reason, not even the Great Healer knew, he did not want to do it, whether he did this by alone or, even worse, with the help of those horrifying alien guards that he knew stood out the door.

"T'Pol, let you to be treated, let me do that. Otherwise…". On sudden, Phlox realized what the road was.

He gazed fixedly at the Vulcan. "Otherwise, when he will return, he will find no longer any T'Pol waiting for him."

It was as if a light, vivid and clear, were turned on in the eyes of T'Pol.

She straightened the face and shoulders.

Then she held out her arm to Phlox. So that he could take her, that could lead her to the bed where he could take care of her using his medical art to give her relief.

Phlox nodded and took her hand.

Docile and tranquil, she followed him.

* * *

Abruptly, as if he had suddenly become aware of her, the man turned to her with his bloodied Lirpa well tightly in his hand.

With all her Vulcan coolness, T'Pau could not help but feel a sense of disquietude, indeed, frankly, of fear.

His face was hardly visible, the helmet, dirty and dented, veiled it. The eyes yes, those could be seen. They seemed to be human-like, even if, evidently the man couldn't be Human, couldn't fight against his own breed. Of such a thing, it had never even remotely heard of. And they were hard. And of a strange and strangely attractive blue colour. But the right was distorted and disfigured. A horrid scar furrowed it from top to bottom.

And, at all illogically, this increased that strange, subtle, never before experienced, feel of fright which that man aroused in her.

Who was him? What sort of man could he be? Capable of rising from nothingness? Of killing so, in that way? With that strange Lirpa? Which was _not _Vulcan.

What sort of… creature, could it be, one able to walk, to run, even, and pretty easily, apparently, with that large, horrendous, bleeding gash that plagued its body?

Those eyes were studying her. The mind behind them was pondering. It was... - T'Pau understood it perfectly - ...it was thinking what to do of her.

Suddenly, the man spoke. His voice lashed her. It was harsh. A little drawled. It betrayed pain. And yet, unequivocally, it sounded jeering.

"Okay, Vulcan beauty. Let's get out of here. Quickly. Run. Haul your pretty butt near to Harrad-Sar. Hurry up."

T'Pau managed to reply, puzzled and uncertain. "Out of here? And how?"

One only word from the man, in response. Dry and rough. "Obey."

The Vulcan raised her eyebrow. A mocking laugh followed her gesture.

"A truly perfect _Vulcan-raised-eyebrow_, babe. Fine, really fine." - The tone was frankly sarcastic. - "You do not know how to get on, eh, Vulcan doll? You know, I am rather versed in matter of Vulcan females."

Then the man's voice became again harsh and biting. "The clock is ticking, Vulcan babe. Obey and just do it. Don't push too much your luck. It's Harrad-Sar the one who interests me."

T'Pau raised her head proudly. She pointed to the young Orion girl who had got up and was looking at the man gawping with a look of awe and wonder. "And she?"

The man turned his head toward the Orion female. In the girl's eyes it flooded a look of fearful supplication. She too had understood all. Completely.

The man's sharp voice rose up again. "Go with our Vulcan beauty, greenskin. Hotfoot."

The two women looked at each other.

"Are you deaf, you two? Hurry on! Or do you want me to leave you here?"

The Vulcan and the Orion female snapped in unison at the wrathful and lashing lure.

They chased away pain and exhaustion.

Both darted toward Harrad-Sar.

* * *

Twenty seconds had not been enough, but now they there were.

The Empress unconsciously jabbed her nails into her palms.

Behind her, Mayweather unconsciously ground his teeth.

* * *

Suddenly T'Pol stopped.

Phlox turned toward her. "What is it? What's going on?"

She did not listen to him. She was listening to something else.

* * *

The roar of mighty engines filled the air, louder than the noise of the slumps and of the rumbles of the explosions.

Everyone raised his eyes to the sky permeated by smoke, even the half-dead Harrad-Sar.

* * *

"We are activating the teleport, Your Majesty. Within a very few instants all four will be here."

The Empress did not even deign to nod. Nor did it Mayweather.

* * *

Tucker clearly felt the familiar feeling. He watched with anger and dismay the mighty flagship of the Empire Fleet that was hurtling over them.

He knew very well what was going on.

The familiar and unpleasant feeling was getting intensifying very quickly. The molecules of his body, such as those of the other three, were about to be disjointed. They would be reassembled on the Empress's ship.

He drew himself up, and raised at the sky his Lirpa.

* * *

T'Pol drew herself up, and raised at the ceiling her hands

Once again she lifted up her voice in despair.

"**No!**"

Phlox seized again her shoulder.

"T'Pol!"

* * *

"**Valdore!** **Now or never!**"

T'Pau, heaped up above Harrad-Sar, in a futile attempt to protect him, with the Orion girl clinging to her, still managed to have enough lucidity to hear the yell of the man, even though she could not understand anything of those words shouted in a language she did not know. But even if she had been able to understand that language, she would not be capable of comprehending. Her body and her mind were just yet rebelling against the sudden feeling of nausea and estrangement that had grabbed her, when the pain took over. Never felt before. Agonizing. It was as if her body were about to be crumbled. She would never have been able to express what she was experiencing. She felt as she were pulled, stretched, torn between opposing forces, in fight to take hold of her.

Barely she has been able to realize the barrage of short, court and broken sentences that burst forth out from the man, but that she wasn't able to understand nor to give them sense, still screamed as they were in that unknown language.

"**More energy! Cloak shields down! Power to the teleport! Lirpa's device! As a directional receiving antenna!**"

And in any case, in whatever language they could have been yelled, T'Pau couldn't have been able to understand them nor anything else. Merely she was no longer able even to think.

The only thing she has been able to do was perceiving an excruciatingly painful feeling that went through her whole being, while everything disappeared around her, engulfed in a kaleidoscope of dazzling and swirling colours.

* * *

"We lost them!"

The Empress turned sharply. "What do you mean 'we lost them'?"

"Your Majesty..."

"They are no longer there. Have disappeared. Where have they gone?"

"What is this?"

The Empress turned again, this time toward the voice of the non-commissioned officer who had spoken. "This what?"

Mayweather moved before the petty officer could reply. He rushed to the console. A signal. Distant. Again that burst of energy, again that indefinable energy vibration. But something else too, this time. He barked. "On screen! Immediately!"

Everyone looked at the screen.

A ship. Very far away. Unknown.

Where before there had been nothing.

* * *

"Up the cloak shields!"

T'Pau was dragged back to life by the sound of that harsh and strained order, still in that not understandable language, even if… even if this time it seemed to her to find something familiar in it.

It was that man.

She opened her eyes with difficulty.

She was on the ground – some kind of weird and unknown, _alien_, floor - next to the Orion girl, who was blatantly trembling.

T'Pau realized she was lying on Harrad-Sar. He breathed. Yes, he was alive. Still. _Her_ Harrad-Sar was still alive.

She twisted her head to look at.

She saw the man.

He was on one of his knees. Where, she did not understand. He held his Lirpa with both hands and was leaning heavily on it. T'Pau was certain that if he had not done so, he would have fallen to the ground.

Yet his head was ostentatiously erect. She could illogically bet that, if he'd taken off his helmet, she might see those blue eyes shine with brazen boldness.

In front of him, towering on him, there was another man.

He had… Vulcan ears. And Vulcan eyebrows.

_And Vulcan he was not._

He was raising his Vulcan-like eyebrow in a Vulcan Vulcan-like expression of icy disapproval at the man's words.

* * *

Mayweather shouted. His shrill barking overlapped that of the Empress.

"Head for that ship. Immediately. Maximum sub-warp speed. Take it."

The huge flagship swung mightily for the effort to which it was subjected.

It veered, sprang aloft, leapt towards the distant vessel.

The mighty air displacement dealt the final blow to what remained of the Command Palace of Harrad-Sar and of the Temple. The building started to crumble on itself, twitched, then leaned to one side. It looked as being firm for an instant, then finally went down all of a sudden and crashed heavily on the Temple, already crumpling in its turn.

Mountains of dust and debris rose up. If anyone had been able to watch the scene, would not have been able to see anything, at that moment and later, much later, when all the dust and the smoke and the debris would have been down unmoving on the ground, one could have seen only a fumigant desolation.

A huge pile of rubble burying things and men.

The men who had followed Hayes and who had all died.

The men, dressed as soldiers of the Empire and who were not Empire soldiers, who had been in command of the self-styled Captain of the élite Guard and who had died, they too. All of them.

Ed Hayes.

That would have been his perennial tomb.

The cold, vindictive ruins of what he had profaned.

And had been the pride of the Orions.

So ended forever their sacred temple, the emblem of them and their history.

Of the rebellion against the Human Empire.

So ended the revolt against the Human Empire.

But no one on the flagship of the fleet of the Human Empire could observe what was happening behind and below them. No one on that ship could linger to contemplate the tangible sign of what Humans had so cruelly and obstinately pursued.

On that ship all were too busy to observe that distant, unknown vessel against which they had hurled.

That vessel which had appeared out of nothingness.

And that, suddenly, before their eyes, in nothingness disappeared.

* * *

"I'm sorry, Valdore."

Valdore. That was the word the man had shouted. Twice. Valdore was a man. A Vulcan-not-Vulcan man.

This time the language was no longer what she did not know. For some reason the man was speaking in standard language, or perhaps it had been put into operation some kind of translator.

T'Pau got down to listen to with all the attention she was able to pay, while she was laboriously recovering from the agonizing sensation she had just experienced and that was getting slowly dissolving.

She put aside all questions about how they had come to be there, about what was that "there". About who were those men, with those Vulcan ears.

Who were not Vulcan.

And who surrounded her and Harrad-Sar and the Orion girl. And even that man. With a cold air. And threatening.

Without moving.

Without showing any sign of wanting to look after them.

Motionless, careful not to change her position, for fear to unleash some dangerous reaction from their… rescuers, if indeed they could be called that way, T'Pau listened to what the man was saying.

"I shouldn't have given that order. I know well how you and yours are efficient."

The man was maintaining the same position, as he talked. He looked dead tired - and how could it have been otherwise? – just as his voice. And yet, somehow, this sounded also irreverent. _Subtly_ irreverent.

There was a war there. A strange sort of war of words and of minds. The man was at war. There, too.

T'Pau perceived it clearly.

"I am more than sure that your efficiency has also suggested to you to keep the ship temporarily firm and in radio silence to prevent any possible revelatory energy output."

There was no answer. There was a chuckle, instead, which ended in a fit of coughing. From the man. "I have fallen for it again. Obvious,_ logical_, that you have already ordered this, Valdore. But you never know, always better be certain, in life."

The man's voice got down. "There are already so few certainties, in life."

Yes, that man was at war. A dangerous undeclared war.

For the first time the voice of the unknown Alien was heard. It resounded hard and grim as hard and grim it was his face. "Where are the soldiers you had in command, General?"

General. The man was a General. Of what army? And of what breed? Or rather, to what breed, to which he didn't belong - that was sure - he provided his services?

A mercenary? On the payroll of those Aliens, so eerily similar, but not identical, to the Vulcans? A mercenary who, like all mercenaries, could not enjoy the full confidence of anyone, not even of those for whom he fought? Could it be so? Could it be explained that way the icy war that T'Pau felt that the man was fighting there, in that alien and unknown room, unlike anything she had seen before? A war no less deadly, probably, than that, red-hot, that he had fought - and won, because this was certain - down there, on Harrad-Sar's homeworld, inside and outside the temple.

A mercenary.

Dangerous for anyone.

Even for his masters.

Beside her, T'Pau felt that the Orion girl was moving. She put her hand on her arm and looked furtively at her. She understood and stood still. And shut up. The girl was manifestly in the grip of the blackest anxiety. And... she too, T'Pau, was on tenterhooks. She, the girl, Harrad-Sar, needed immediate cures. Harrad-Sar, especially he, needed to be cured right off. Harrad-Sar was struggling against an impending death. And... also that man.

That mercenary.

Who she really did not understand how could be even able to speak, so tanned as he was.

But she could not do anything. She was not in a position to do anything. None of them could do anything. They could only listen to and watch.

They could only hope that there, too, as on the planet, the man could win the war.

* * *

By now Phlox almost was letting it fly. Something else had happened, he was sure, and on the face of T'Pol the most various expressions were alternating the one after other. Relief, yes, he had seen it. And then tension. And concern. And extreme attention.

He stood quietly watching and waiting.

* * *

Supporting himself on his Lirpa, the man stood up with effort. Holding it with his left hand, he took off his helmet with the right, showing finally his features.

Finally they could see. A faint gasp of surprise escaped from the girl's mouth and T'Pau herself barely managed not to do so she too.

The man's face was a mask of blood. It was black and blue, bluish, dirty, distorted...

If by chance T'Pau had seen that visage previously, she now would not have been able to recognize it, to figure out who it belonged to.

Yet that man was alive. But how was it possible?

This in and of itself would have been enough to spark the start of surprise, of astonishment that both she and the young Orion had felt in seeing the man's visage.

But there was another thing.

Much as unrecognizable that face may have been, it was perfectly recognizable that it was Human.

The man was Human, completely Human.

He should have had light hair, but this wasn't clear, so much it was the grime that covered his head, mixed with blood. Two only things could be clearly seen; the blue of his eyes and that horrible, disfiguring scar that spread upon the most of his right hemi-face, and that gave him a scary and disturbing look, just the appearance that one would expect that a mercenary should have.

A Human. Who fought against the Humans. In the pay, or at the service, who could know, of an unknown race, similar to the Vulcan race, that used him to fight the Humans.

Incredible, unheard of.

But absolutely logical, come to think.

Humans do not possessed the physical strength that many other races had, did not possess an ounce of the cold reasoning capacity of the Vulcans, were neither so sharp nor so blindly determined as the Andorians, were not so genuinely wild as the Klingons ...

There were many breeds that exceeded the Humans in something.

But there was one thing in which they were insurmountable.

The war.

No one could defeat the Humans.

T'Pau felt something, a kind of painful lump inside her. She, and all those who had joined the uprising, had experienced the hard way how it was true the reputation of invincibility that Humans had conquered.

So then, if you need an invincible warrior, able to fight with any hope of victory against the invincible Humans, what better choice than an invincible Human?

And to fill the measure, who, more than a Human, can know and can easily take advantage of the weaknesses of the Humans, provided that they can exist?

A Human mercenary would be the best choice.

Of course, no one would have thought that a Human could accept to fight against his own race, against his own Empire.

Yet the man was there. He was a Human. And he fought and was fighting against the Human Empire on behalf of that strange breed that appeared to be twin of the Vulcans.

It was quite understandable that this breed appeared suspicious and leery of him.

Who ever can trust a traitor?

But that hireling traitor, admitting that he was really that, had them all in his hands. T'Pau was fully aware that their fate was tied to the thin war plot that was being fought in that alien room.

For some reason that man had - or had not - done something that he should have - or should have not - done.

Or perhaps, more simply, he was merely put to the test.

A mercenary is always to the test.

Still on the assumption that there wasn't much more behind all this, well hidden in the depths of that deformed eye capable of freezing your heart.

The man, _that Human man, _let fall down to the ground his helmet and brought both his hands to hold his bloodied weapon. He leaned weightily on it, with all his tired and battered body, so as to give it some support.

He looked at the being in front of him. His posture, his tone looked quiet. "Dead. In performing their duty. Is it not this, what they must do, the soldiers of the Romulan Empire?"

**_Romulan!_**

T'Pau could not help but wince, in one with the Orion girl close to her.

She got up sitting up on the ground, along with her, both oblivious of every precaution.

_Romulan_. Those were Romulans. The dreaded, unknown, never seen by anyone, Romulans.

And they were the copy of the Vulcans. And in cahoots with them, on their payroll, there was a Human.

She looked with an insuppressible feel of unquiet dismay at that Being, at the Romulan called Valdore.

He was pointing his finger at the Human.

"Their duty, General - _your_ duty - was to bring here Harrad-Sar."

"Well, this is done, it seems to me, is not it?"

"And certainly not a worthless Vulcan woman."

"Ah, but she is of value to me. You know it, I have a certain weakness for Vulcan women."

"Nor, even less, an Orion female."

"But Valdore, do not you think a little variety may be of benefit to a poor Human, all alone amid a cloud of cold Romulans? _Of cold Romulan females?_ I think that with everything I went through for the honour of the Romulan Empire, I may be entitled to some small innocent leisure activity."

"Human..."

The man's teeth gleamed in what looked as a glaring mocking smile. "On condition, however, that I can do it, I mean to be able to enjoy the attentions of my two pretty preys of war. You know, I do not feel very well, at present. Perhaps it would be better that some doctor can take care of me. I seem to remember that, just thanks to me, there is one pretty good, at this time, in the place where we should head. Indeed, perhaps it would be better if we hurry. You know, aside from my two spoils of war, to be honest even they not too healthy, at this moment, also Harrad-Sar seems to need rather urgent care."

The smile seemed to acquire some sort of a frankly defiant air. "It would be a real shame that our soldiers had died for nothing."

For a moment it seemed that the Romulan, that Valdore, wanted to incinerate the Human with his eyes.

Then, unexpectedly, he turned to another Romulan. He looked at him with questioning eyes. "Is the Human flagship far enough? Can we do it without being longer discoverable?"

That one nodded.

Valdore turned back towards the Human. Looking him straight, he barked an order. "Warp jump. Maximum speed."

The teeth of the man, previously bared by his thin smile, disappeared under the lips that closed. The defiant smile disappeared, and yet, somehow, those lips, even if almost invisible under the mask of blood and dirt, seemed to keep smiling with restrained satisfaction. Even though almost imperceptible, it was a smile of victory. T'Pau realized that, somehow, that man had won the war again.

For the first time since they were there, he turned to look at her and at her young Orion companion of misfortune.

"Well, my girls. It seems that very soon we can benefit from the care of a physician."

He pointed to the unconscious Harrad-Sar. "He'll make it. His fibre is very strong, it seems, and the doctor who will treat us knows his way. He is a little… expeditious, sometimes, but he's on the ball."

Finally, just when some of the Aliens were going to pick up from the floor the two of them - her, T'Pau, and the Orion girl - along with Harrad-Sar, the Human turned back toward the Romulan.

T'Pau's ears have been rippled by the thin sound of his sneering chuckle. "Tell your men to treat them well, Valdore. Leaving aside that, when I'll be fine, I have every intention of making good use of the two females, it would really be a pity that right now Harrad-Sar pulls the bucket. Before I can talk to him."

"It's not you who must speak with him, Human."

"Oh yes, Romulan. That's me. I brought here him and the two women, fighting for them and stealing them from the death if not from a worst fate. The women are my spoils of war. They belong to me. Only I can dispose of them. Only the Emperor can subtract them to me. And as for Harrad-Sar…"

"Human..."

The Human took no notice of the Romulan's interruption, nor of the tone of menacing contempt with which he had uttered that 'Human'. The man continued as if the Romulan had not even spoken. "As for him, _mine_, it has been the idea. _Mine_, it has been the plan. _Mine_, it has been the risk."

His stare meaningfully locked on that of the Romulan, the Human paused very briefly, then resumed to speak in a low tone. A tone that didn't admit replies. "_Mine_, it will be the honour."

"Human, here, to have any honour, it's me. Mine, it's the honour of the command."

Unconsciously, unreasonably, illogically, T'Pau found herself addressing to the man with a silent mental warning. _*Careful. Be careful.*_

He continued, speaking quietly but firmly. "I know, Valdore, but I also know that, precisely because of the role that you play, you know the laws of the Romulan Empire, and more than the others. You know more than the others what is its essence, what makes it so strong, what it is. And I know that, just because aware that this force can not and should not be undermined, always you will keep to these rules and always you will make it that they are abided. By everyone."

The Romulan remained motionless. His scowling eyes didn't detach from the Human's livid visage.

The man held his gaze. "Death to those who err, honour to those who distinguish themselves for the Empire's honour, who serve the Empire with honour." His voice was deep and grave. "And I have distinguished myself for the Empire's honour. I served it with honour."

A break, brief. Once again. "I will serve always the Empire with honour." Another one. "And I will pay with my life if I'll err."

A moment, just a moment, of silent war of looks, then the Romulan turned on his heel and walked away.

While strong arms lifted her from the ground - her, the girl, and Harrad-Sar - rudely but not violently, T'Pau glanced at the Human.

He was still standing, leaning on his Lirpa.

He seemed about to fall to the ground.

Instead, he straightened up.

He raised his head.

He sank his marred eye into her gaze.

It was as if a veil were clouding his, but a gleam of bright blue shone from under the red furrow of his disfiguring scar.

The war was won. He had also won that war.

Then the gleam went out.

Those eyes seemed to turn into two wells of deep, unfathomable blue.

Yes, the war was won.

_For now._

T'Pau had difficulty to withstand the man's look. She had to lower her eyes.

He turned abruptly and started walking slowly, using his Lirpa as a sort of crutch, in the direction where it had gone earlier the Romulan.

While, supported by alien hands, she, along with the Orion girl, walked painstakingly behind him, next to the guards who carried the unconscious Harrad-Sar, her eyes fixed on the man's back, T'Pau found herself thinking of why she had had to divert her look from that of him.

Of what, for real, had veiled the man's gaze.

The fatigue? The exhaustion? The pain?

Or maybe other it was the veil that had fallen on those eyes. Maybe it was the veil that separated that man from all the others.

That man...

T'Pau was young. And was a Vulcan. A _very receptive_ young Vulcan.

_That man was alone._

To fight a secret war, dark and endless.

* * *

"You won. **You won!** Now, come back to me. Come to me! _I need you_. You are not alone. From now on, never again you will be alone. I will be beside you. Forever. To fight together with you your secret war, dark and endless."

With her hands clasped behind, T'Pol leaned limply with her back on the wall, a never seen expression on her face, a mixture of enchantment, of joy. Of dreamy wonder. As dreamy it resounded her voice, low and soft. "And to give you all you want me to give you."

Phlox did not take even bother to understand what T'Pol was saying, indeed, he preferred even not to dwell on the meaning of her last words, not to mention her unthinkable new attitude, so hard to bind to T'Pol, the T'Pol Phlox knew before, and yet sounding so right, in those unprecedented predicaments.

Who knows if she, once everything were over, that they were at least partially restored the conditions as before, that her mind had regained her usual strength and lucidity, she would remember fully what had happened, her words, her acts, her gestures, and she would accept them?

But, to tell the truth, not even this unconscious question, coming just from his unconscious, Phlox was able to follow, to understand.

On the other hand, he had a lot of valid justifications. Understand? And how could he? It was impossible for him to understand at that moment; indeed, it was impossible even focus, even slightly, to try to understand. His brain was unable. Totally. Because there was one only thing he had perfectly understood, one thing that obscured all the others.

He - _Tucker, the General Tucker_ - had made it.

_And he was coming back._

Fear gripped again suddenly the doctor. The General had told him it in no uncertain terms. Very… eloquently.

_T'Pol had to be in perfect condition upon his return!_

He gabbled. "T'Pol, listen..."

The Vulcan… _smiled at him!_

"I'm fine, Phlox. Do not be afraid. I'm fine."

Then she went limp.

* * *

A heavy silence hung over the bridge.

Where had it gone to end the unknown ship? How was it possible that it had disappeared that way, as if it had never existed?

The mighty flagship of her Imperial Highness Oshi Sato cruised at a reduced speed the area of space where the ship was gone, looking for an even minimal trace revealing an outpouring of energy, a flick, a flash. Anything.

But there was nothing.

The Empress decided it was needed to act. "Torpedoes ready. We will strike blindly. A salvo of torpedoes fired in every direction."

She raised her hand. "Ready at my order."

Mayweather spoke respectfully. "Your Highness, if Harrad-Sar and the man are on that ship…"

They would die, if the missing ship would be hit. And even if in the end it was not really important that Harrad-Sar fell alive into her hands, it was really important - basilar - that _that man_ could be taken alive.

The revolt was over, repressed forever. But the man and what was behind him were a new and unknown threat.

She could not risk losing him that way.

_Especially if he was really who she thought he was._

Nodding with condescension to her paramour, the Empress lowered her hand.

It was time to return, for the moment there was nothing that one could do

The only thing they could was to examine carefully all the information in their possession, including those relating to the raid that had led to the rescue of that bitch of T'Pol. And including even what her beloved, treacherous snake had hidden from her. Even in her dismayed wrath, she smiled to herself. She knew how to get him to talk. There was no need for any threat. He was immune to the threats and, for now, she needed him. But… there were things she knew well how to do, _and how to do very well_; things - snares - in which not even a cold snake could prevent from being entrapped.

The impalpable carnal net in which he had wrapped her, ultimately enveloped also him and for now there was no one who could take his place in that net.

*_For now._*

The right time would come, to track down that man, to chase him, to ferret him, to discover who was behind him and to flush out, together with him, a certain woman, a certain Vulcan trollop. The Empress was sure she wasn't mistaken.

Things did not end there, they would know where to look.

As her beloved serpentlike Councillor would have said, it was necessary, however, to make things the right way.

The rebellion was over; she, the Empress, had won. And it was therefore time to celebrate.

But it was also time to consolidate the victory - her ascent to the throne - and, together, to thwart the new, unknown threat.

The Emperor, the old Emperor, had fled, but he was still somewhere, hidden, waiting, and not a few forces were willing to give him help, if she had allowed this, if she had not imposed, but at the same time her young power could be unhinged by that man, or, rather, by the unknown enemy he represented, if she had not been capable of acting the right way.

So, if on one side it was necessary to prove that she was really the new Empress, that there was no way she could be ousted, on the other it was necessary, contemporaneously, to foil the new unknown menace.

It was necessary to go to Earth. In force. And to go to occupy, _physically_, the throne waiting for her over there. She had to take actual possession of Earth. But while doing that, her staff should have worked very hard to allow her to unearth the hidden enemy.

The Empress settled herself comfortably on the command chair. "Return to the planet. Recover all the remaining forces there. Then route for Space Station One. Call up all the space ships. Tell them to join us at the Space Station."

She made her eyes linger on the people who occupied the bridge. "As soon as the whole fleet will be gathered, we will head for Earth."

She watched, with amused gaze, the baffled face of her puzzled snake.

This time the hand was hers.

* * *

Phlox rushed to support T'Pol before she could fall to the ground.

Damn! Damn. Damn!

He picked her up with careful care on his arms, carried her to the infirmary bed, laid her on it. He hastened to examine her.

He gasped in amazement.

It was ... it was true!

Heart, breath, pressure. And brain.

Everything perfect.

She was fine.

T'Pol was placidly sleeping!

While he was standing there watching her, trying to find his way, behind him the door opened.

Phlox turned.

Two guards, two of _those_ guards were entering. The harsh voice of one of them rose up. "Denobulan..."

Phlox held up a hand to stop the guard. Interdict, this one broke off and looked at him, raising his eyebrow.

"Yes, I know. The General is coming back. And I do not believe to be wrong when I say that he needs me. Is that so?"

The guard nodded, incapable of believing that that faint-hearted Denobulan could speak thus, showing such a security, and incapable of reacting in an _appropriate_ manner. Beside him, his colleague was experiencing the same feelings. And, Romulan or not, he found himself being glad it was not up to him to run things.

Phlox raised proudly his head. "Very well. Take me to him. But before..."

He turned to the hospital bed where T'Pol was quietly sleeping. He looked at her for a moment. She was beautiful. Her complexion seemed to go regaining her usual attractive bronzed colour. She looked even to be no longer too haggard.

The doctor turned back to the guards. "Before, I want you to make come here some women. Mh, two will be sufficient, I believe. There will be some of them, here, won't they?"

At the more and more amazed and dumbfounded nod of the guard, Phlox nodded in turn. "Good. I think that as far as they can be gruff, they will never be like you, I mean like you men, and, anyway, it's not thing for men what I will ask them to do."

As it might seem incredible, the doctor had to struggle not to laugh in front of the expression of complete bewilderment that appeared on the faces of the guards.

"Yes, because they will have to take care of her."

He pointed to the Vulcan. With force and authority, he went on, looking at the guards straight in the face.

"I want her to be brought up in a _comfortable_ room and I want her to be able to rest on a _comfortable_ bed. The ideal would be that she could enjoy an environment in which it were possible to benefit from a little bit of pure air and of not artificial light, but so it is. I will settle for a room large and well lit. Also, which is extremely important, _essential_, I want her to be cared for in every respect and in every way. I want her to have refreshment. And to be washed. And combed. And dressed. Very well. And pleasantly."

At those words, the guard, the one who had talked before, could no longer contain himself. Finally he blurted out. "Denobulan!"

Phlox continued as if the guard hadn't even spoken. His gaze became hard and penetrating.

"_I want her to be perfect for when General Tucker will come from her._"

The guard remained silent, looking in disbelief and embarrassment at Phlox. For the Empire's sake! The thing was becoming too big for him.

The doctor spoke quietly. "I'm waiting."

None of the guards made the slightest hint to move, nor to talk. If they had been Humans, very likely they would have been awkwardly rocking from foot to foot.

Phlox spoke with making sly. "Perhaps it would be best that you go talk to your boss, or, maybe, who knows, _even to General Tucker_."

This was exactly the cue that was needed. Just a moment yet, then the guards turned on their heels and left the room.

Phlox remained in waiting. Well, he had to admit that it had been not bad at all. It was what was needed. Ah, how much it was what was needed! It had been really refreshing. Definitely a tad dangerous, this was sure. But what a treat! He felt so much better. It seemed to him to be back ... behold ... to be back, at least in part, himself. But ... well, yes, well ... had he exaggerated? Had he dared too much? Had gone too far, relying on the power that General Tucker looked undeniably having among that people?

Some time passed. A little too much. And Phlox was not at all quiet.

Then the door opened again.

Followed by the two guards of before, two females entered, _femininely_ dressed and... not too much. Not at all bad to be honest - Phlox was a connoisseur – and, yeah… also not exactly mirroring the Romulan appearance. They were similar to the Romulans, but in their features reminded the Vulcans more than the Romulans.

But how many breeds with pointed ears and slanting Vulcan eyebrows there were there?

Oh well, be that as it may, the two women were there. Without showing it, the doctor sighed with relief. Apparently, he had made it.

The two females stood in front of him, stiff, but also strangely quiet, submissive - this was the word - without talking, the guards behind them.

The women were waiting for his instructions. Evident.

He simply indicated them the bed where T'Pol lay. They would not have been there if they had not known why.

The women nodded, they both, and, still in silence, they headed toward the bed.

Operating in perfect synchrony - but this people, or rather… well, yes… these peoples, were they truly trained in everything so... militarily? Worse than the Humans, damnit! - the two females gently - _just so!_ - lifted the Vulcan, avoiding that she might wake up.

Well, to tell the truth, Phlox was convinced that this was rather difficult, at that moment.

The women set down carefully T'Pol on a stretcher with the same delicacy - _unbelievable, but true _- and then began to push the stretcher.

Phlox and the two guards followed them.

They went out into the hall and took the elevator.

One of the two guards, the one who seemed to have the task of leading the operations, said "highest level". What a strange way of saying. At those words, the elevator started to go up, without anyone having pressed the hand control.

One, two... Phlox did not know, but evidently the infirmary was located on the level zero... three. The top floor. But the elevator did not stop, continued to go up.

A _highest_ level... hidden!

The ascent has been going on, not a little. More. And yet more. Phlox began to feel uncomfortable. Damn, but how big was that space ship?

Finally the elevator stopped. Its door opened.

Still without speaking the two women pushed out the stretcher, with Phlox and the two guards in tow.

At the eyes of the doctor it appeared a broad and long corridor, which seemed to extend circularly and on whose wall there was a long row of doors, quite spaced out from each other.

For the Supreme Healer's sake! This space ship was really enormous!

The usual guard pointed to a door and the two women made their way towards it. They stopped in front, and the guard uttered a few other words. It seemed some kind of code.

The door opened and a gush of light poured out from it.

The doctor widened his eyes. Gosh! They had really heeded to him!

The two women pushed inside the stretcher. With the guards behind him, Phlox came in, behind the two females.

_And found himself bathed in the light of the day._

Phlox could not believe his eyes and his senses, but it was exactly so.

He looked around in wonder.

A very vast room. Decorated with simple but beautiful furniture. Armchairs. Chairs. A desk. Paintings - strange - on the walls. A large table, with, above, drinks and food, pleasant-looking.

A bed, great, looking very comfortable, with the headboard leaning against a wall, the one on the right of the entrance door, positioned so that he who was resting on the bed could look out, through... _through the large window, that was wide open there, on the opposite wall, just in the front of them, and from which a stream of warm daylight irrupted inside, illuminating everything, together with a gentle flow of fresh, fragrant air. Sparkling. Invigorating. Alive._

Forgetful of all else, of all fear, unmindful of the guards, Phlox ran to the window.

He looked out.

Before his astonished eyes, it showed itself a vast and varicoloured garden, lush with strange and unknown trees, and myriads of bright flowers.

And fountains, and streams, and placid, peaceful ponds.

A vision of quiet and peace in an universe of tumult and war.

And right there, where no one could ever have expected it.

_They were not on a space ship, they were on a world, on a planet!_

And, at that time, he was looking at its surface, or, at least, a part of that surface, a beautiful, scrumptious, wonderful, part, something that only in the dreams of his youth, he had imagined could exist, that he had only seen in the pictures depicting the imperial residence on Earth.

Yet it there was. And it was there. Not on Earth.

Phlox tried to put some order into his brain. He had thought all this time to be on a spaceship and now he discovered that it was not so, that the environments, the spartan, bleak environments in which he had spent those long days, those long nights, the infirmary, even the prison where he had been locked up at the beginning, they were only a part, perhaps even very small, of a larger complex, evidently dug deep into a planet, from which it was possible to access its surface, a beautiful, idyllic surface, for what he could see.

But that garden, that wonderful, fragrant garden, just as, on the other hand, the cosy room, very little, indeed not at all, befitted with those dreary, rigid, scary Romulans. It was not like them. Behold. It was hard to believe that... Phox fumbled in his mind to find the rights words ... that corner of paradise were theirs, of the Romulans, of their planet.

_It was hard to believe that it could be kept so enchanting by them._

So then? Where were they? Who looked after that garden?

Something, _someone_, moved, in the garden. Phlox strained his eyes. There were some figures in it, that he had not noticed before, because of the surprise. They were few. One, sitting on the edge of a pond; one, under a shady tree with the back leaning against the trunk; one, standing to look far afield; one, walking slowly, with the head bowed. All were silent and all, in some way, emanated some sort of subtly feel of pensive melancholy. Maybe it was that thoughtful air that they showed, maybe it was their attitude, that sort of soft abandonment that shone through it. Phlox did not know, though, it was as if there was something in them, a sort of forlorn resignation.

And all were females.

And anything but dressed, indeed one could say that they were practically almost completely naked.

And all of them had the features of those two women, those who had entered the infirmary with the two guards.

Those women... those two women, similar more to Vulcans than to Romulans...

Phlox turned around. The two women had put T'Pol lying on the bed, had carefully covered her with the sheets and now were gently making neat her visage and her hair, attentively and delicately, looking diligently not to wake her.

_They were lovingly taking care of her._

While they were doing that, the two guards watched them with keen attention. The guards were keeping tabs on them, clear. But it didn't go unnoticed to Phlox that the guards were also observing the women with a gaze... not indifferent.

The doctor saw again in his mind the way the two women had appeared to him. They had looked obedient, remissive. _Submissive_. Yes, that was the more fitting term, if not, and even more… _subjugated_.

And now, they were treating T'Pol in the most suitable way, knew perfectly how to act. It almost seemed that they were knowingly… _preparing her_.

The doctor arched his eyebrow, a la T'Pol, while reverting to gaze at the garden. Perhaps the most logical question to do about it was about which was its purpose, or rather, about what it was used for. As that room, and the others, too. And it was not hard to figure out what the use was.

There are many ways in which the subjugated species can serve their masters, for example by giving them the beauty and the pleasure that they wouldn't otherwise be capable of having.

Phlox pondered. No, he wasn't mistaken. That was… _the garden of the pleasures_. For the grim warriors of the Romulan Empire.

Nothing bad, oh no, nothing at all. On the contrary. The Romulans were the rulers, the slave breeds were their servants. In all respects. Perfectly normal. Nothing different from what had always happened between dominants and dominated, from what would always happen and, in all honesty, Phlox would have not disdained to be a Romulan, as for that kind of service.

But the fact was that he was not a Romulan. He was a Denobulan. And Denobulans were a subject race to the Humans. And, apparently, The Romulans were up to something, they were very likely, not to say certainly, plotting to blow away from the domain of men the Domain of the Men.

It could also be that they were simply preoccupied by the expansionism of the Humans, that would eventually lead these ones to clash with them, and for that reason they had partially come out into the open, by intervening in their own way to somehow keep alive the fire of the rebellion, just when this rebellion was on the verge of being eradicated. But then, if it were just so, Tucker, for what could he be useful to them? What the hell could they do with him? And Phlox had already understood earlier that Tucker had to be in cahoots with them since long a time, it was not merely something tied to what had happened in the last times.

No, Tucker worked for them, or, who knows, maybe only _seemed_ to work for them, because he could be the picklock with which the Romulans thought to pick the lock of the lore chest of the appetizing Terran Empire.

Through and through logical, to think about it. Humans did not possess the physical strength of many other races, did not possess an ounce of the cold reasoning capacity of the Vulcans, were not sharp nor blindly determined as the Andorians, had not the genuine wildness of the Klingons...

The Humans were exceeded in something by many breeds, but in one thing they were insurmountable.

The war.

No one could defeat the Humans.

The rebels had learned this the hard way. Of course, fate had helped the Humans, but they had been able to grab at the chance. Humans did not miss any opportunity.

So then, if you have to fight against Humans with any hope to defeat them, you must use a Human.

Tucker.

This was the man.

Why him? And who could tell? Of course, something had had to happen, something that had its roots in the past, the past - Phlox was sure more and more of that - from which it had arisen his scar.

But things, were they really so?

What had T'Pol said? What had her words been, those words that he had not internalized nor understood, too busy as he had been from having realized that Tucker was coming back?

_["You are not alone. From now on, never again you will be alone. I will be beside you. Forever. To fight together with you your secret war, dark and endless."]_

_*Your secret war, dark and endless.*_

Phlox was persuaded to be in the right. There was a Bond, a Vulcan Bond, that now tied T'Pol to Tucker, therefore T'Pol, consciously or unconsciously, could access to the innermost, the most intimate thoughts of Tucker. To his secrets.

Of course, it was entirely possible that Tucker was nothing but a dirty renegade, a traitor to his race, that he had decided to side with the Romulans against his own race for his personal lewd benefits, to share their eventual fate of dominance and to find himself on the right side at the right time.

But Phlox couldn't believe it was so. It was not this, the Tucker's secret war to which T'Pol had referred. She, Bond or no Bond, would never have agreed to fight at the side of a man whose actions would have done nothing more than changing the master of her race. She had fought to the extreme, to give some freedom to her breed. She, Bond or not Bond, would never have fought together with a man who was combating a war that, if he had won, would have worsened the conditions of her breed.

Tucker was fighting another, a different secret war.

A war whose aim was…

The realization that so many times he had driven back, showed up, fully perspicuous, in the mind of Phlox.

The Empire of men was strong, but it was also weak. It was undermined from within by corruption, by the power of unwarlike men, not up to those who had built it, with the force, yes, but also with the intelligence and the dexterity, ruthless, certainly, but of a ruthlessness necessary to bring order to the chaos of the universe.

And Humans had been able to tie to themselves, in some way, all the races they had subjugated, by exploiting, but also favouring the inclinations and desires of each of them.

But now it was no longer so. Now the Empire was getting flaking off and the rebellion itself was proof of that.

The Empire was coming apart because it had become prey to an oligarchy of unworthy men and unnecessarily cruel, and now it had fallen into the hands of an Empress even more unworthy and cruel, flanked by a snake unworthy and cruel.

Phlox knew it. Yes. He did not want to think about it, but he knew it all.

So did Tucker? Was it this, the subtle and dangerous game that he was playing? The secret war of which T'Pol had raved? Was it possible that she was not at all delirious? That Tucker was leading his own secret war to thwart the destiny of dissolution of the Empire? Which inevitably - Phlox suddenly realized it - which inevitably should have passed through an increased interpenetration of the subjugated races in the conduct itself of the Empire.

Through their greater freedom!

Whereas... yeah, whereas if the command's stick had passed into the hands of the Romulans...

Phlox could not help but shudder.

What would have been the fate of the breeds that would have been subjugated by the Romulans, if they had replaced Humans in dominating them? Of the breeds that somehow served Humans and therefore were, per force, enemy of the Romulans?

A fate worse, much worse than that to be under the heel of the Humans!

Not to mention what would be the fate of the Humans!

And not to mention the fate of those races subjected, which, like that of the Vulcans - like his! - were loyal vassals of the Terrans.

Where ... Phlox shivered again ... where the hell were the males of the race to which those women belonged? What was the use made of them by the Romulans?

Better not to think about it. No. Much better.

And better not to get lost in all those thoughts, decidedly misleading. At the bottom they were only speculations, without any real confirmation, not truly borne out by the facts. After all, T'Pol had really raved, and in the delirium one says nonsensical things, unreal.

All he knew for real, besides the fact that Tucker was alive and well and apparently not without authority, was that the Bond existed and that, since he was aware of it, whereas not even Tucker, probably not even T'Pol, knew it, he could use it to derive some personal benefit. Of course, he could not deny that the experience he had had in seeing, in feeling, T'Pol fight in her trance had an impact on his way of being. He felt that this had awakened in him something... something… something…

_Something noble_. Yeah.

Phlox chuckled to himself. *_Something noble_.*

But that did not mean he could not conduct his little personal war, groped to improve his fate.

For example, with Tucker he could insinuate that he knew about things it was better to keep secret. Many things T'Pol had said could useful in this regard. Certainly it could have been a little dangerous, but, acting with caution...

It could have been a weapon of blackmail against Tucker, useful to push the man to grant him some nice boon, for example… well... one... or two... or three... in a nutshell _some_ of those women. Phlox thought he was not mistaken in believing that Tucker would have been able to do this for him, if he had thought… ahem… to have some compelling reason to do so. All in all it seemed that Tucker were definitely at the top of that hierarchy of warriors who apparently constituted the backbone of the Romulan Empire.

Eh sure. Not for nothing, no, not for nothing those two women were taking care of T'Pol exactly as they were expecting they should do _with a woman who was destined to a Romulan warrior._

A woman who _belonged_ to that warrior.

Tucker enjoyed that right.

He was powerful.

And T'Pol... - Phlox grinned. Finally after so long, he was able to grin again. - Who knows how she would react, when, recovered and fit, she would have found herself doing the part that, no doubt, was destined for her.

In that garden of the pleasures.

Obviously, before… _that moment_, she would have to really be completely healed, mentally and physically, should have been totally recovered and fit.

Phlox approached the bed, nodding to the two women to move away. He pulled over T'Pol his diagnostic portable medical device.

It was hard to believe, but she was still sleeping peacefully and her neuronal synapses appeared perfectly normal.

Phlox looked closely at her face. It exuded calm and… serenity.

The doctor became thoughtful. Tucker, in good condition, in a bad state, it did not matter how, was returning. And T'Pol, now, in spite of all she had been through, before, in that cage of horrors, and afterwards, right in front of his eyes, was sleeping. Quiet and serene.

*_Yes._* Phlox withdrew his device. She would recover fully and completely.

She would be _perfectly fit_ again.

But it was necessary that he too, Tucker, were in good condition for… that moment.

_He too should have been fit_.

It was time to go.

Phlox cleared his throat. He turned to the women with sure way of doing. "She is entrusted to your care. Let her rest, and when she will wake up, give her a good refreshment, without going overboard."

Damn! But how big was the penetration level of Tucker in regard to the ways of speaking and a heap of other stuff? That man was able to leave his mark ... the gaze of the doctor dashed an instant to T'Pol ... on everything!

He resumed hurriedly to talk to the two women, turning back to fix his eyes into theirs. "Remember. You two are responsible for her and you have to make sure she's okay. You two must fulfil all her requirements."

Phlox turned to the two guards who had remained silent and motionless.

He spoke even more firmly. How wonderful being able to do so! Was he trusting too much in himself? In the immunity that the position of Tucker and his position in respect of Tucker could offer him? Maybe. But to hell! It was worth it!

"I believe that it is up to the two of you to keep me informed of every little thing concerning the Vulcan female. She is thing of General Tucker. She belongs to him. When the General will want to see her, it will be necessary for me to come here to inspect that she is exactly how I intend that the General has to find her."

Without even bothering to wait for seeing the facial reaction of the two men, rather _expressive_ in spite of the fact that they were Romulans, the doctor turned back to the two women. "When you will see that she will be sufficiently in forces, wash and perfume her. Adorn her hair. Dress her agreeably." Phlox smiled slyly. "_Seductively._"

His smile became astute. "I do not think I have to explain to you what I mean to say. And I also believe that my suggestion may sound rather… superfluous."

Phlox turned again towards the two guards. "Now we can go. The General needs me and besides I do not think that it is appropriate for us to remain here to see women who take care of a woman. It comes to something rather peculiar, do not you think? Not too worthy of the brave warriors of the Romulan Empire, I believe, nor of a doctor. And then I do not think that General Tucker would be too happy about such a thing."

Ah, what a delight to see those faces cut with an axe get lost in the most embarrassed confusion, with those eyebrows raised to signify the inability to handle the situation!

One last look at the sleeping Vulcan before following the two men who had spun around, had gone to the door, and now, standing there, were waiting for him, their faces turned to him, looking decidedly annoyed and impatient.

Well, Phlox just had to admit it. It was not that it weren't true that it was really opportune for him to give a look at the conditions of T'Pol, when Tucker had been able to go to her, but he could not deny that there was on his part also a certain desire to see how she would be visually appeared as a result of her… preparation.

There was to wonder how it would have been raised her eyebrow!

Oh well. No more of this. Away off, now.

Satisfied and not too tense, a little more confident, finally, after so long, he motioned to the two guards.

They waited for him to come out of the room and then turned on their heels and left the chamber, they too, taking him between them.

Proud and pompous, the doctor walked with them towards the elevator.

While, from its inside, before its door has shut, his eyes fell on the closed door of the room where T'Pol was, an impertinent thought and, somehow, downright funny, popped into his brain.

Certainly when Tucker would have been in front of a T'Pol _confectioned_ that way, he would have found her on war footing, no doubt. A Vulcan female was not a female to be treated that way! Especially a Vulcan female named T'Pol! Mercifully that in her current conditions she was not able to validly kick against those two poor women who were given the task to look after her.

*_Yet…_*

Phlox grinned to himself.

Yet, in the teeth of all this, there were decidedly compelling reasons to believe that, once that it had broken out, T'Pol would have been more than happy to lose this particular kind of war.

* * *

**_End of Chapter Twelve_**

**_TBC_**

**ooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

_Wonder what is the particular kind of war to which our doctor alludes._

_Oh well. Who knows? Maybe we'll find out in the next chapter._

_However, it will also needed not to forget the Empress and her snake_

_And... well yes ... even a certain fugitive former Emperor._


	13. Chapter 13 Love Is Blind

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Thirteen**

**_Love is blind._**

* * *

_Yes, my friends._

_Love is blind._

_And its ways are strange and unpredictable._

_And it is really mischievous._

_It's an angel._

_And a devil._

_Very fitting to Tucker._

_Why?_

_You shall see._

* * *

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"My name is T'Pau. What's yours?"

The young Orion girl was shaken out of her thoughts by the sudden and abrupt question of the Vulcan woman.

Her large eyes got focused, quizzical and a little surprised, on the austere face of her cellmate.

"Considering our common destiny of suppliers of pleasure for the man of whom we are evidently slaves, I think it is logical for us to introduce us each other. Better that we know each other at least a little, in view of what we will have to do."

The girl's eyes widened even more. Her fate was unceremoniously thrown in her face by the Vulcan female.

"In all honesty, I have to admit that you can be much more helpful to me than I can be to you. You know, if you are young, as is evident, so am I, and then, in addition to the fact that sexual slavery is not part of the cultural heritage of my race, I have not yet made any sexual experience, whereas I think I can say that, in accordance with the uses of the race to which you belong, you should be rather versed in the matter, much as young you may be. For my part, I will try to make the most profit from your teachings and will put at your disposal my Vulcan logic to improve your and, consequently, also my performances. Our lives depend on the quality and quantity of pleasure that we will be able to offer to our master."

No emotion. Nothing. The Vulcan was telling her that the two of them would have to share the fate as sex toys for that man, and not the slightest sign of dejection or bitterness resonated in her words. Oh sure, she was a Vulcan. If logic told her that the situation was that one, for her there could be nothing but logic to deal with it at the best, in order to survive. Sure, okay! But ... but ... a little tactfulness, what the heck! At least a little!

Never the less, the girl found herself to respond, by automatism. "My name is..." Her voice was hesitant, and became even more so as she realized how it would have rung her name, at that juncture. But by now it had come out from her lips. "...Delight."

The arching of the eyebrow of the Vulcan caused her resentful irritation, toward her, that Vulcan gal, but, more importantly, toward herself. What kind of name she had to have!

The anger gave her the courage. "But I'm not that kind of delight! As much as you might believe that we women of Orion are nothing but whores, I know about sex as much as you, if not less! Just as you, I have never had..."

Suddenly, brutally, the stark reality that the Vulcan had poured on her, the sordidness, the misery, the squalor of it, of the vision of her coming life, gripped her heart.

Her voice trailed, took to shake. "I… I have never had ... I am not able to... and... _and I don't want to_..." It broke. Then, the words came out of her mouth as pushed by force, in a faint whisper. "Will this really happen? Really, I... you... you and I...?

T'Pau fixed her eyes in those of the girl, saw how they had filled up with tears. Saw the trembling of her lips.

And her hand shot forward to reach hers, came to rest gently on it.

It was something that no one would have believed that could happen in that Universe of violence and malice, and even less to a Vulcan. Yet it was happening.

A sort of softness appeared on T'Pau's face, something akin to understanding.

To compassion.

What she had had to endure, the huge effort that Harrad-Sar had done, in the desperate attempt to save their lives, sure, but above all - she knew it, _was sure of it!_ - to spare her the fate that Hayes had reserved for her, were not passed in vain on her.

Harrad-Sar...

The... yes ... the longing for him, the need for him, grabbed T'Pau.

Where was Harrad-Sar? After that strange Denobulan doctor, all in disorder, had been introduced to them, Harrad-Sar had been taken away to be cured, at least according to what had said their ... - T'Pau found herself smiling bitterly to herself, in the secrecy of her Katra - ... their so-called saviour. And most likely it was really so: even the two of them had been treated, though hastily and under the constant surveillance of those Aliens so similar to her, to her race, by that doctor, before being locked up together in that cell, in that way, totally undressed, stark naked, further evidence of what was expected from them. Of what that man, that Human, in fight against the Human Empire, expected from them. Would have demanded from them.

Harrad-Sar's efforts had been in vain.

The man would be changed; the master; their lord and owner. But their fate, the fate of her and of that girl would have been the same.

Harrad-Sar... how she needed him! How she missed his indomitable and reassuring strength! His protection!

She… she missed him even more than Syrran!

Yes! Even him, her mentor, her teacher, the man whose death had taken away with it ... even the Katra of... of...

Whose end had also decreed the end of all hope of resurrection for the people of Vulcan!

Still, T'Pau felt the need for Harrad-Sar much more than the need for Syrran.

But, after all, wasn't perhaps Harrad-Sar, just he, the one to whom Syrran had entrusted her, at the point of his death?

Syrran was... had been wise. He had carried within him the wisdom of Surak.

He knew he wasn't making a mistake. He knew that Harrad-Sar would have been for her what he himself had been. And even more.

T'Pau thrust back those odd feelings. They were not things fit for a Vulcan female. And then...

And then she couldn't afford them, at the time.

But her voice sounded strangely sweet, when she spoke again.

"You heard that man. We are his spoils of war. And we are females. And he's a male. And is our master. We can't..." - Her voice softened even more – "...we mustn't deceive ourselves. But just for this we need to help each other. We have to survive."

"Survive?"

The voice of the girl, of… Delight, sounded high and squeaky. Angry.

"For what? What kind of life will be ours? Why should we continue to live?"

"To..."

T'Pau stopped abruptly. She could not tell what she was going to say. Surely unseen eyes and hidden ears were spying on them. She could not say that the survival at any cost was all remained to them, to attempt to find a way out.

_And to…_

Survive. Hoping that the occasion could occur to escape. To escape their fate. To ... - How were saying Humans? Just they? That hope never dies? - …to try to fight again against the yoke of the Empire.

T'Pau couldn't say that. Couldn't say that they had to live, _survive_, _miserably_, for that absurd hope.

To try again to realize the absurd hope of Syrran.

Of Harrad-Sar.

But why not? Why do not hope, believe, that this were possible? After all, the two of them and Harrad-Sar - yes, he was alive, he had to be alive! - were prisoners of a people clearly enemy of the Humans, and that man, that Human, the master of the two of them, was fighting against his own people. Why not hope that, _by behaving well with him_, they could convince him to trust them? To allow them to be not only a source of pleasure for him, but also two allies? Reliable. Along with ... yes, along with Harrad-Sar. Ultimately, he had led an expedition to Harrad-Sar's rescue. She and the Orion girl had stumbled into the trap by accident, and ... well, yes; after all, he had spared their lives, whereas he could have killed them. Indeed, in his own way, he had fought to save them: in the end, he had openly defied the one who was clearly the leader of those Aliens to prevent the two of them from being killed.

Consequently… consequently…

Sure, those aliens... that man, needed Harrad-Sar. This was clear.

But it was also clear that that man… that he, maybe, was… was…

_Different._

Maybe he was not just a mercenary, a sordid renegade, a vile traitor of his people in the pay of those Aliens.

She... she had sensed something in him.

Something hidden, secret.

_Different._

She had sensed his secret war and endless.

Maybe, in that his secret war there was the real reason why he was there, in the midst of those Aliens, to fight for them and with them against his own people.

Maybe, in that secret war it could really be rooted his diversity, the obscure and strong and... _captivating_ diversity, she had perceived.

And maybe, in this case, it was really possible for the two of them to hope.

Yes. They two, she and Delight, had to prove to him that they could be useful to him, not only in the way he would have demanded from them.

But they should have started from what they were requested to do.

They should have been and shown themselves… collaborative. _Happily_ collaborative. Should have shown to that man their pleasure to give him pleasure. They would have to bow, willingly, _joyfully_, to his every will.

They would have had to prove to him their gratitude for having been saved by him, would have had to prove to him that this gratitude was stronger than any desire to escape.

And thus they would have earned his trust.

Up to escape, hopefully, to their fate.

Up to get in on his secret war.

As an active part.

That was their only hope.

But she could not say any of that to the Orion girl, even if she had been sure she could speak without fear of being heard. It was not this the way she could convince her, it was certainly not with the logic of her arguments.

It was no the logic, what the girl needed.

She had to be led to understand and to join forces, because only by helping each other, they would have been able to endure the fate of brutishness and pain that awaited them, not with logic.

Now T'Pau was able to comprehend; now, after having seen what Harrad-Sar had done for her not for logic, but for feeling.

And by means of this, by means of the feeling, Delight could perhaps have been persuaded to do what they had to do, in the manner that logic suggested T'Pau that should have been done.

And T'Pau, the new T'Pau who had arisen from the illogical sacrificing himself for her on the part of Harrad-Sar, who could have left her to her fate with far better chance of survival and instead had wanted to take charge of her, too; this new T'Pau, tried to do that.

The Vulcan gently shook the Orion girl's hand, and kindly pulled her down to sit together with her on the hard bed which was the only furniture in the cell.

Looking at her cellmate with an expression far from the mask of coldness that any Vulcan face has the habit of showing, she spoke with a sweetness unheard of not only for a Vulcan, but also unheard of for that Universe of brutality and oppression. She had to convince Delight. And... not only because it was necessary that the two of them collaborate. She... she would not, could not allow Delight to get lost!

"Delight, we have no way of escape, we cannot do anything but submit and we will not make it, if we do not help each other. It is true, we are not captives of our enemies Humans, we should not fear their vengeance, the cruelty and hardness of their methods. But I do not think that those in whose hands we are, possess less… persuasive methods than those of Humans."

T'Pau made a brief pause. She had to be clear without being harsh, and did not know how to do.

"And... it will not be allowed us to die, Delight. If we will not knuckle under, it is certain that we will have to undergo the most atrocious sufferings without being able to escape our destiny. It is not an universe of compassion, the one in which we live, Delight."

Under her hand, T'Pau clearly felt the shudder that passed through the flesh of Delight, at her words. She saw the tears falling, plentiful, on the girl's cheeks.

"However, we have a small luck, in our bad lot."

Delight's eyes widened. She didn't understand.

"Delight, we are not in the hands of these Aliens except indirectly. We are in the hands of that man, of that Human. And he saved us, Delight. And he fought against his own allies, has openly challenged their leader, so that we could stay alive. At the bottom..." - T'Pau sighed. It cost her a world say what she was going to say, and did not even know if she would be able to put into words what she really wanted to mean. – "At the bottom, all that is asked us is simply to be… cute… with him."

"Cute with him!" Delight uttered those words as if they were a blasphemy. It was not possible! It could not be that her companion in misfortune, and Vulcan in addition, could say such a thing!

She moved her lips as if to speak, without any sound being able to come out of her mouth.

Then, finally, she snapped.

Her nails sank into the flesh of the Vulcan.

"Why have I saved him? Why? I should have let Hayes kill him! If he were dead, now the two of us would not be here, at his disposal, to satisfy his cravings!"

The fear, despondency, despair, did not allow the girl to realize the absurdity of her words, the illogic of what she asserted; they prevented her from remembering that Hayes would have had in store for her the same fate and, surely, with the payment of much more heinous sufferings .

The impotent rage was blinding her.

"Why! WHY!"

"Delight..." The Vulcan gently squeezed the girl's hand. "Delight, I think ... I think he's different. He... "

"**WHY!?**"

"Delight!" T'Pau shook her shoulder. "Listen to me!"

"**WHYYYYY!**"

"DELIGHT!"

Needless. The Orion girl could not, wasn't able to listen to, to understand.

"Why, why, why! What prompted me to save him? I do not want... I DO NOT WANT TO GIVE HIM ANYTHING OF WHAT HE DEMANDS ME TO GIVE HIM! "

"I have never needed to demand anything."

The voice suddenly broke out in the cell.

The two women lifted their heads together, holding each other's hands.

So it was just like that, they were heard.

The voice, now well known to them, was heard again. Sardonic and scathing.

"From no woman."

A hiss and the cell's door, located right on the wall opposite the bed, opened.

The two women stood up together, still holding hands, and watched towards the gaping goalmouth.

Into it, it stood out a high figure.

The figure moved. Entered the cell. Stopped a few steps ahead of them.

His hands folded on his back, he, _that man_, - it was him - spoke again. In the same sarcastic tone.

"There has never been any woman who has not spontaneously volunteered to offer me all of her, without any need to ask from my part."

A mocking smile was making show of itself on his face, as he spoke.

And that face, now, was no longer a mask of blood, dirty, distorted by pain.

It was clean.

Was perfectly visible.

Perfectly distinguishable.

The dark and brilliant blue of the unique eye which could be clearly seen on it, the other half-hidden by a disfiguring scar, darted from one woman to the other.

T'Pau felt her cellmate cling to her and she didn't refuse her grip, indeed, she reciprocated it, while in their ears the new words were ringing of the man whose face they were finally able to see.

And to recognize.

"Any woman. Human, Denobulan, Andorian, Orion or of any other race."

The eye, finally, has ended up fixating, swaggering, on T'Pau.

The derisive voice rose one more time, as the eye kept staring, jeering, at her.

"Vulcan females included."

The two women clung to each other, while they watched that face, hard and marked.

Known to the four corners of the Empire.

* * *

Peace. Peace of mind.

Tranquillity.

Serenity.

She had never experienced such sensations.

Yet she could recognize them.

And she could recognize she was feeling them.

Her eyelashes blinked, the eyelids fluttered.

Got opened.

Light. Warm.

Real.

True.

Not artificial.

And air. Cool, crisp air. Sweet.

She turned her head.

A window. Large. Opening onto a marvellous garden. Something she had never seen.

She moved her head again.

She was in a room, cosy and simply yet beautifully furnished and ornamented.

Her hands moved to look for.

A blanket.

It covered her naked body.

She was in a bed, a true bed.

Comfortable.

She perceived a movement.

She turned her head toward the opposite side.

Two women, practically naked. Only two small damasked cups to hide their nipples and a long fluttering and transparent skirt that flapped around their bare legs with the faint whiff of the air and with their movements, revealing everything of their well made bodies.

They were beautiful.

And… had the aspect of Vulcans. Like her.

They had noticed that she had woken up.

She saw them move, one toward her, the other toward a low cabinet, on which there was something, she could not see what.

The first sat on the bed next to her.

She had a glass in her hand.

"Drink, you need it."

The voice was quiet.

T'Pol didn't wait to be asked twice. She was thirsty.

The woman helped her to lift her head from the pillow.

T'Pol was grateful to her. She felt weak.

Supporting her head with the other arm, the woman brought the rim of the glass to her lips and helped her to drink.

What delight! It was not water, but it was sweet and fresh. And thirst-quenching.

The woman made gently rest her head again on the pillow.

The other woman joined the first. She too sat on the bed, on the opposite side.

She had a tray on her hands.

T'Pol saw what was on the tray.

Food. Much. And appetizing. No meat. Magnificent vegetables, raw and cooked. Fragrant.

The hunger made itself felt.

Even this other woman spoke, her voice low and sweet, like that of the first.

"This is for you. Eat, it will give you strength."

She made as if wanting to lift her bust, to be able to eat, and immediately the first of the two women helped her. She put the glass down on the tray held up by the other and kept up T'Pol from behind, providing support to her with an arm around her shoulders, while with her other hand she was holding up the edge of the blanket, above T'Pol's bosom, so that the blanket couldn't go down, discovering her.

T'Pol started to move her hands to pick up the food, even without cutlery, so much was the hunger that now she clearly and powerfully felt. But the other woman immediately stopped her, gently but firmly. She had placed the tray on the bed and her hands had sprung forward to stop those of T'Pol at the first hint of their movement.

T'Pol looked at her blankly.

The woman said nothing, just took a bite of food from a plate on the tray with a fork and brought this to T'Pol's mouth, motioning with her head.

T'Pol took the morsel into her mouth and chewed.

The taste was delicious.

She swallowed the bite and immediately accepted the following mouthful that the woman was offering.

And so, little by little, bite after bite, she ate all, so, in that way, spoon-fed - cared for - like a child, drinking occasionally a sip of the cool and refreshing drink that the other woman offered her, putting the glass near to her lips whenever she beckoned to want to drink.

T'Pol motioned as if wanting to put down herself, lying on the bed, and immediately the two women pandered her.

Now she felt good, physically and mentally. But she was tired and wanted to rest. Without any issues. With no one of the innumerable issues, of the questions that she knew should have found a response, sooner or later, but that at that moment could only risk of dispelling that marvellous sensation of serenity she felt, if she had yielded to the temptation to attend to them.

She simply wanted to fully enjoy that unknown and priceless peace of mind that she felt for the first time in her life.

She did not understand, did not know why she felt it.

*_Tucker..._*

She did not understand what it was that strange thing, beautiful, pleasant; that sweet sound… no, that quiet reverb, that reassuring, low murmur in her mind... that... that...

That… what?

*_Tucker.._. _Are you here?_*

What was that odd thought? Why on earth should she think that...?

Oh but…

But what did it matter, now?

Afterwards. Afterwards...

Yes, afterwards. Later.

For now, she did not want to think. All issues could wait.

One of the women took the tray and carried it away while the other placed well and scrupulously the blanket on the body of T'Pol.

She barely heard the words that the woman whispered to her. "Rest. We are here."

She closed her eyes and sweetly fell asleep.

* * *

Commander Charles Tucker.

That man was him.

It was impossible not to recognize him.

It was impossible not to know who he was.

His face, that face, undoubtedly beautiful even if disfigured, was known everywhere and by everyone.

_The engineer-sorceress._

So he was called by the races less logical than Vulcans, more prone to fantasy, although... well, yes, although even the Vulcans, sometimes, could not help but think that something magical, witchlike, he could really possess.

_The engineer-sorceress. The relentless and powerful 'additional' weapon of the Empire._

_And its faithful servant. Its gloomy soldier._

And… such facts cannot remain hidden, their noise spreads everywhere, unstoppable… the _unthinkable _lover of the woman, the Vulcan woman, T'Pol, who had dared to rebel against the Empire in the very heart of its new and virulent power; and who had been saved from the terrible death that had been decreed to her by unknown soldiers, dressed... - T'Pau remembered well the video, confused and fragmentary, of T'Pol's execution, that everyone had been able to see before it got interrupted - ... dressed in strange armours, similar - identical - to that which now covered him, Tucker.

It had been he. _He_ had led the rescue expedition to T'Pol. Exactly as he had led that to Harrad-Sar.

He had saved his mistress.

But why, if it was true what everyone knew, if there was to believe in the military intelligence, that is, that she had deceived him, cruelly, in order to have from him what she needed, to lead her own rebellion?

Why, if it was true as it was true that he was known everywhere as absolutely loyal to the Empire, if it was true as it was true that he was dreaded everywhere because he was able to turn to the advantage of the Humans any situation in grace of the magic of his knowledges and technical skills, without any regard on his part for the rights of the subjects of the Empire? Their horrific conditions? For their trampled upon and despised dignity?

And most importantly, how?

How was it possible that he were there to fight for and with those aliens, unknown to everyone, against the Empire?

How… inasmuch he was dead!?

Dead, destroyed, vanished. It was well known. Everyone knew it. The military secret service had had no doubt about it. And the rebels, all of them, had breathed a huge sigh of relief at the thought that that dreadful weapon, that engineer, wizard and warrior, was no longer at the disposal of the Empire. He was gone, swallowed up forever in the blast, in the fire, which had broken out on the ship, in the place where he was standing.

Gone, gone forever along with their sadistic Denobulan doctor.

*_Sadistic… Denobulan doctor?_*

Denobulan! Just like the one who had treated them both, her and Delight, to whom it had been entrusted Harrad-Sar and to whom the same Tucker had entrusted himself.

Was it… the same doctor? Emaciated and battered, and with an expression anything but sadistic, almost demurely, at times almost lost…

Him? Changed to the point of being almost unrecognizable?

He, too, with those aliens who however didn't seem to care much about him, who looked at him with haughtiness ... with contempt...

There, along with Tucker.

At... at his service?

By his will, by the will of that engineer, sorcerer to the point of having fooled even death?

And not just once.

And T'Pol? Was she too there, somewhere?

And why not together with Tucker, if it was that?

T'Pau did not even think to ask questions, nor, even less, her companion.

It was certainly not the time, if ever that time had come.

Keeping quiet. And accepting.

This was all that at that time the two of them could and should do.

The man, Tucker, was looking at them, with an expression half-amused half-threatening.

Then, suddenly, his expression changed. It got enraged.

Delight clung even more to T'Pau.

But the anger was not directed at them.

Tucker turned around.

"Come inside", he barked.

Two women, dressed basically with nothing, and beautiful, and… and definitely Vulcan in their appearance, entered.

They carried in their hands some kind of stuff, such as blankets.

"Cover them."

The women immediately obeyed the order of Tucker.

T'Pau and Delight were covered with the blankets, their nakedness got hidden and their bodies protected from the cold.

Tucker raised his head up. He spoke in the air, to the concealed ears that were listening. "They are my spoils of war. I'll be the one to decide when I will want to dabble with the vision of the nakedness of their bodies." He grinned. "And also with something more, of them."

His gaze rested upon them. "And it's me the only one who can decide where you two have to stay."

He pointed to the door. "Come on. Get out of here."

Without waiting for them, he turned and left the cell. T'Pau and Delight followed him and walked out in their turn, still holding hands, their eyes fixed on his back, the other two women behind them.

They walked down a long corridor at a brisk pace, without meeting a soul.

Tucker stopped in front of a door. He turned to look at them. "This is my home, my quarters. You two will reside here."

He turned and uttered something, some kind of code in an unknown language, _that language_, in which though - now T'Pau noticed it - there was something familiar.

The door opened.

Tucker turned back toward them. He gestured with his head. "Inside."

T'Pau and Delight went in. The door closed behind them, behind Tucker and behind the two women, who placed themselves on the sidelines, quiet and still.

T'Pau and Delight looked around.

It was a small room and spartan.

A bed, practically a cot, a small wardrobe, a chair, a table, littered with papers, technical drawings, but also reproductions of faces, people, things.

Models of strange machines hung from the ceiling and, on a small shelf on the wall above the table, next to little empty boxes and overturned, there was a strange indecipherable figurine in the form of a small monster with a vaguely anthropomorphic appearance.

On the back of the room, next to the bathroom door, on the only free wall, it was inserted what was evidently the provided computer.

The mocking voice of Tucker called them to order. "Do you like it? I hope so, because from now on you will live here."

He turned all around, observing the room with a critical eye.

"It is small for three people, I know, but, to tell the truth," - he turned toward them with a sardonic grin painted on his face – "the floor is not too hard. You are welcome to sleep on it, when I won't order to one of you, or to both, to share the bed with me." - He laughed openly. – "Not for sleeping, though." - He winked with his unique eye – "Small space, great intimacy."

T'Pau felt Delight quiver, next to her. She squeezed her companion's hand, that she was still holding.

*_Hush, Delight. Shut up. Do not talk, do not react._*

But there was something strange. The way of doing of Tucker was too ... too obvious. Too ... flashy. What was the need to emphasize so strongly their condition as slaves? The fate that expected them? It was so, the two of them were well conscious of this, they knew it. And they knew that they couldn't rebel.

And then, why was he talking so loudly?

As if in answer to the unspoken questions of T'Pau, Tucker turned continuing to talk as if he were speaking not just to them.

"These two women will show you how you'll have to use my quarters. They will take you clothes and food and drinks. And medicines. I do not want to have to deal with weak and sick women. Only healthy women and _active_ are good to be used by me. Then, they will leave the two of you alone."

A strange smirk, amused and sly, appeared on his carved face, as he turned again towards T'Pau and the Orion girl. "It is not good that they" - he gestured to the two women, always still and silent – "remain here, nor, much less, in the surroundings. This is no place for them, their place is another."

Then his face got back of stone. "You will always stay here. Under my orders and desires. Locked here in my absence and in my presence."

He looked fixedly at T'Pau. "And do not think to rebel. Your Vulcan strength would do little against me, I know how to defend myself."

His gaze shifted to Delight. "And your powerful hormones can do nothing against my nasal filters."

Then his expressive gaze became strange, strangely winking. It was as if that look meant something else, wanted to go beyond what he was saying. "And remember. You two would not do a single step without me, here and outside of here." His eye shone, significantly. "Discretion is not part of these places."

T'Pau's expression remained perfectly blank, but she had understood.

Thus, her suspicions were true.

Even at that moment, even in the quarters of the man who was their master, they - and he, too - were under surveillance.

And he was saying it to them _indirectly._

He was speaking like that, because he had to talk like that. He was warning them, and... and was telling them that they shouldn't have had to fear him, at least… at least not too much; that they should have had reliance in him.

*_Delight! Delight! Do you understand? Do you understand, you too, this?_*

Yes, Delight had understood. The relaxation of her hand, still tightened in hers, the slight but noticeable sigh that she had issued, and... and something else... T'Pau did not know ... something... a kind of subtle connection that perhaps… – she wasn't sure, but it seemed so - …perhaps had arisen between them, suggested to T'Pau that she too, Delight, had understood.

T'Pau didn't dare even think about how Tucker would have attempted to find a solution for the problem of their… intimacy, but perhaps, after all, this... this was not a real problem for him. He had saved them two, had protected them, and was even now offering them his protection, but this did not mean that he did not want anything in return and… there was a good bet that he couldn't care less about being viewed while... while…

He was different, certainly, and he was demonstrating this. She hadn't deceived herself in her perceptions. But it was hard to think that he could be different up to that point.

Anyway, in the end, the two of them were safe, and would have been safe with him.

But... and Harrad-Sar?

T'Pau could not restrain herself. "Harrad-Sar, how is he?"

In a faint voice. More, she could not.

That eye, frosty and probing, alighted on her. It drilled down into her. "He will heal, soon. I had already told you. Very soon, he'll be ready to face the talks with me."

T'Pau could not help but sigh of relief, although the future meeting between Tucker and Harrad-Sar reassured her not at all. Why Harrad-Sar had been rescued? With so big risks? What did they want, those Aliens, from him? What wanted _Tucker_, from him?

Though, however it were...

But how was it possible? Viz... Harrad-Sar had suffered the torments of hell, of course, but that man, Tucker, had almost died. Indeed, he _had _died! For real! And this time, it was not a matter of reported rumours, of intelligence information. She had seen him die! And rise again! And act! And talk! And she had seen and heard him... had heard him hold off his fearsome allies, as he seemed on the verge of having to give back at every moment his soul to his bloodthirsty warrior God. She had seen him!

And now he was there! Perfectly healed and perfectly alive!

_How was it possible?_

T'Pau, once again, could not restrain herself. It was something that was outside of all logic and, somehow, she felt it was important. Very, very important. "How... how is it that ..."

"I'm fine?" Tucker's voice was very low. "That's what you want to mean?"

"Y... y… yes." T'Pau surprised herself to stutter her answer, in the throes of true wonder. But she had good reason. The wonder was him, Tucker. That man was astounding. He was there, alive and well, when he should have been dead, and as if that were not enough...

How could he be so perceptive? So intuitive? How had he done to understand her question even before she could formulate it? And was there possibly something that connected his prodigious ability to heal with his capacity for perception?

Tucker was silent a moment. He ran a hand over his face, then looked up.

An undecipherable, unfathomable expression passed across his marked visage.

"I do not know."

His voice lowered until to be a whisper.

"No one knows."

But there was a sombre light in his gaze, in that eye, blue and inscrutable. His mind was working on that issue and T'Pau knew that his was a sharp mind.

* * *

He did not know. He, the great doctor, did not know.

Or, rather, he knew, but wasn't able to understand it.

He had remained dumbfounded when he had seen Tucker. The General Tucker.

How did that man to be alive?

His visage was a mask of blood, distorted, doleful, to the point to be unrecognizable. He drew his breath with his teeth. The little skin that could be seen on his face under that hair-raising crust was as white as a sheet, for the enormous amount of blood he had lost, as the values of his blood cell count determination showed unequivocally.

And that wound... that immense, deep, foul-smelling wound on his back, from which pieces of burning flesh fell into shreds...

That wound, which deepened until to the lungs... until to the heart. Injured, all of them, awfully impaired, nicked, damaged, as examinations clearly revealed.

Yet still amazingly working.

_How did that man to be alive?_

The amazement which had seized Phlox to see such a thing, so unnatural, so beyond the biological laws in which he firmly believed, on which he had formed himself, had even exceeded the surprise to see Harrad-Sar.

The leader of the rebels was there, he too injured and practically ready to be delivered to death.

That, of course, had been the aim of Tucker's depart. The recovery of Harrad-Sar.

And he had done it.

But at what cost!

Phlox had immediately understood what his task was. Treating the General, of course, but also Harrad-Sar. He should have snatched the Orion rebel out of death, just as Tucker. But this, namely the treating of the Orion man, had not been difficult, after all. Harrad-Sar could have been cured easily and at the end of the treatment it would have been enough for him an adequate period of rest. Just as for the two women, the Vulcan and the Orion, that Tucker had dragged with him, only he knew why. Although... well, although, to be honest, none of the two women was bad at all. There was to do a little thought, on them, despite the Orion girl were a wee bit unripe yet, to tell the truth, but whoa! - with all her 'little things' well in place. Anyway, they had looked shaken and shocked, although the Vulcan, of course, had desperately tried not to let it show, but not too shabby, actually. Just a fair amount of not too deep wounds and bruises on their bodies - by the way, nothing bad that which was abundantly possible to observe through the tattered dress of the Vulcan female - and a shiner on the face of the Orion girl, which, to want to see well, gave her in some way an additional peculiar attractive allure.

But as regards to the General...

For the Great Healer! Not even for him it had been difficult to find the proper cure! Quite simply, he had had no need to be cured in the proper sense of the term; it had been sufficient supporting his very fast and spontaneous healing process.

Phlox could not help but _shiver_ of wonder, even now, at the thought of what he had been able to observe.

Transfusions. Sure. Painkillers. Antibiotics. Some minor surgical procedures. Dressings.

But nothing and no one could have done what Tucker's body had done by itself!

Quickly, visibly, it had been back like new.

Like new!

Tucker was not a fool. He had asked him how it was possible that he could recover in that way and… _and how it had been possible that he had been able to come back from that frosty dark - so he had called it - that had suddenly enveloped him, immediately after that terrible pain that had grabbed him from behind and that in a flash had spread to his whole body, until to darken his mind._

Phlox knew the answer, even though he did not understand.

But he had not wanted to say anything to Tucker. It wasn't... it wasn't that the moment.

Oh sure, he had made his plans, had thought to be able to turn to his own advantage, in some way, the knowledge he had acquired on what... on the connection, the Bond, that only he knew that had been formed between Tucker and T'Pol. And he would have carried out his plans, by the beard of the Great Healer! Sooner or later he would have done it! Sure.

But... but not at that moment. No. It was not appropriate and ... well, yes, well ... not even fair. Behold!

And then, how on earth would he have told Tucker:_ 'General, the reason is T'Pol. Because she ... because you... because you two...'_?

No. It wasn't that the moment.

He had limited himself to say "I do not know."

But he knew.

The reason was there, somewhere on that planet on which he now knew that they were.

The reason was a woman capable of changing men and world, capable, perhaps even beyond her own will or, at the very least, totally unbeknownst to her, of giving new life to something that the doctor did not believe could longer exist, something called… love.

And even…even…

The doctor stood up from the uncomfortable chair on which he was sitting in the infirmary which had become his permanent accommodation, for the first time fully aware of the change that was taking place in him; for the first time almost – almost, _only_ almost, though! - willing to accept it.

…_Even capable of giving back to him, Phlox, something that he thought he no longer possessed._

Damn woman! Damn witch! It hadn't been enough for her drag him in her crazy adventure! It hadn't been enough for her make him go through hell because Tucker had wanted him, Phlox, to pull her out from death and from the terror of mind and soul that the terrible ordeal she had had to bear had left inside her!

No! Oh no! It was not enough for her! Now she had started to change him too, Phlox! Just so! She was making him… she was making him a soft-hearted sissy!

Damn witch of a Vulcan female!

Oh, but he would not surrender so easily. No. Not at all.

What did it matter to him about Tucker, about T'Pol, about their connection? Their Bond?

What did it matter to him...

He got back to sit, heavily. He ran slowly a hand over his face; trying – stupidly, pointlessly, inanely - to continue to do what, in his very heart, he knew he was doing: lying to himself.

His eyes rose up, as to look up there, at the top, at something, _someone_, who he could not see at that time, only imagine, but that he knew was up above, in that room peaceful and bright, overlooking over a dream garden.

What did it matter to him… about that wonderful – unique - Vulcan woman, that princess of war and love, who was now sleeping quiet and serene?

Right now.

With Tucker's comeback.

* * *

The two females watched the woman entrusted to them. She was moving in the bed, was waking up again.

They saw her open her eyes.

They realized that now she was fine. Her face was laid-back and calm, her arms and her hands relaxed.

But they also saw that her eyes were vivid and intent. There was in them, now, not merely placid blankness and unmoving perplexity, but curiosity and strength. _Life._

Now she appeared to be really fit.

_Utilizable._

It was time to send through the guards to the Denobulan doctor the message that he was waiting for.

He could come to inspect the status of the woman owned by the Human General to verify if she was really ready to receive him.

* * *

"My ladies, no more of this."

Delight and also T'Pau were caught off guard by the sudden swerve in the speaking way of Tucker and in his tone. It seemed to heard in it some sort of amusement.

"Now I turn away for a while." - The amused tone grew more evident. – "You are not yet in condition to serve me. You need rest and preparation for that. "

Delight could not help but feel a chill inside. She did not like in the least those words _- to serve me_ - and the jeering snigger that had appeared on the face... on the face of the man who she had thought she would never have been able to see, _who she_ _had hoped_, before the news of his death had spread everywhere, she would **never** have had to see.

The legendary engineer-sorcerer, the truer face, the _hideous_ face of the wicked ingenuity of the oppressors.

Everyone, everywhere, knew him, more than any other Officer of the Empire, even more than its Generals, its Admirals, its Captains. Everyone knew the disfigured face of the man who never spoke and acted always, able to translate into reality the most absurd requests that the Generals and Admirals and Captains of the Imperial Fleet made to him, to make their ships able to do... everything!

He was... he was the evil genius of the Human Empire!

And now she was... in his hands! In the hands of the man who had filled her nightmares of girl, who in his disfigured visage itself had enclosed the terrors hers and of her playmates.

In his hands! In the hands of a man who shouldn't have existed anymore and who instead existed, and whom she, she herself, had saved, pushed... pushed... not even she knew by what.

He was there, alive and well, after having died twice, to show just how it was true that he was the engineer-sorcerer!

Sorcerer! Warlock! To such an extent that it was said that he had even been capable of seducing that Vulcan female, T'Pol, the same who had rebelled against the new cruel Empress and who had been saved from her awful fate, they said, it was whispered, without daring to say it out loud, just by him, by his black soul spewed again from his hell.

_And his hell had really spewed again him!_

And there would have been nothing to be surprised if that Vulcan woman, that T'Pol, disappeared from the universe without a trace, could have been there, she too, someplace, to await her human lover, regurgitated back out from men's hell.

Delight was happy that together with her, perhaps... perhaps even close to her, there was the Vulcan, T'Pau. She was, yes, she was someone on whom she could have leaned, could have relied; her Vulcan coldness could have helped and supported her, though, to tell the truth, her Vulcan companion didn't seem so cold, after all. She seemed to shudder for Harrad-Sar, and this... yes, this made her closer to her.

Delight couldn't help but go on watching, fearful, the shadowy face of the man resurrected from the shadows. She could not understand, could not even fully realize, and this increased her fear. How was it possible that he were alive? And even more that he could appear in such great shape when she had seen him how she had seen him? Reduced to a state to be frightening? It had already been incredible to see him move and speak and act, albeit with immense strain and fatigue in that state, but seeing him so, now, fully recovered! And in such a short time!

Was he... was he really a warlock? Had he made a pact with the demons of his hell?

And not only that, even if this was enough to confuse her mind, as well as any other mind. How was it possible that he, just he, the dark lord of the machines, the grim and faithful genius of the Empire, were there, unbeknownst to all, to fight against the Empire - there couldn't have been any doubt about that - along with those aliens so similar in their semblances to Vulcans, never seen before, and with that aspect so dour, so threatening. So eloquently hostile and malevolent?

And - and this has beaten everything - how was it possible that he, just he, had faced death to rescue Harrad-Sar? And that he had also saved the two of them, her and T'Pau? He, the man who, it was known, hadn't any mercy. And that he had strongly stood in the way of those threatening Aliens to protect them? And that now, in spite of his words, despite his chilly and unfriendly stance, he... he had made them understand that he would have still protected them, even if… - Those words, _'to serve me'_, and that sly and malicious grin oppressed Delight even more - ... even if it was hard to think that he wouldn't have claimed anything back from them.

And yet... yet, his behaviour just seemed to want to exclude that he wanted to force her and T'Pau to ... to...

Even T'Pau, she was sure, had interpreted in this way that manner of talking, of acting on his part, as if he wanted to make it clear to them that he could not but speak and act like that, because they, and he too, were under surveillance. He could not afford false moves. Those Aliens ... those Aliens, perhaps, indeed evidently, were not exactly his trusted allies.

What had he said before, in the cell?

That he had never have needed to demand anything from any woman, that there had been no woman who hadn't given all herself to him not spontaneously.

It hadn't been a bravado, if it was true that even the Vulcan T'Pol had given herself to him.

But then… then it was sure, it was certain! He would have demanded from them, from her ad T'Pau, to be at his service, maybe he would also have demanded from them to really be his slaves. But he wouldn't have demanded from them to be his sex slaves!

This, at least this, would have been spared them! In the life of humiliation which would have expected them, at least they would have been spared this abasement.

"Our esteemed doctor said that both of you need a little bit of good rest before you are usable, so I'll be away for an appropriate time. I will return when the two women I leave with you, will notify me that you two are able to proceed with your pleasant duties. You know, the two of them are rather expert in this field."

Delight felt a sinking heart. She lowered her eyes.

No! It was not true! He could not possibly have said this!

Delight was young, had no experience, not yet, but she was not a little sheep, a candid lambkin. She was not outside of the world where she lived. And she was Orion! Love and seduction were, would have been, her destiny, her way. But not in that way! _She_ was the female! _She_ should have been the lady of love! _Hers_, it should have been dominance! _She_ should have had to choose her man and bring him to the highest peaks, push him up to the impossible, under the sweet lash of her irresistible sex hormones!

Instead…

Had she deluded herself? Deceived herself?

That man, in spite of everything he had seemed to want to say, would he have made her nothing more than a sex toy? Without will? Without hope? Would _he_ have done to her what _she_ should have done to him?

But then it was true! _It was true!_ Humans were really the nemesis of the other races! They were the divine punishment for their sins!

There was no salvation! THERE WAS NO SALVATION!

*_T-Pau!_*

Oh, how she was happy that that woman were there with her, that strong Vulcan female, who seemed so concerned about Harrad-Sar, and who had barged into her life together with him, the one who was the idol and hope hers and of her people and of all the rebels.

This had to mean something! Compulsorily!

Delight looked for the eyes of her companion of bad luck, in quest of some comfort in her, and she saw that they were turned toward the man and that were quiet. They looked serene and on the Vulcan's lips, it hovered, very slight, almost imperceptible... hovered the shadow of a slender smile!

Delight turned suddenly her gaze towards the man and saw on his face an amused smile. Not sardonic, not wry, not mocking. **Warm!**

And she realized.

He had teased her! Her and T'Pau! He had amused himself at their expense! But he would have not betrayed them! He would have kept what he had made them understand that he would have done!

And T'Pau had already understood!

That man ... that man was...

What was he?

What kind of Human was ever that?

Where was the true and where the false, in him?

That man was not a sorcerer. He had not made a pact with the demons of his hell! He, himself, was ... was a devil! He was _**the**_ devil!

Or... or perhaps, for her, for the two of them... he was… was...

How have they called it, that creature, that didn't exist? They, exactly they, the Humans?

An _angel?_

An angel. A creature of light. But he was made of shadow, maybe he was a _diabolical angel_. But in him there was light, too. Maybe ... perhaps he was an _angelic devil._

An angel. A devil.

*_A devil. An angel._*

Delight looked closely at that man, with new and different eyes. At his tall figure and athletic. At his broad shoulders and powerful. At his nervous hands and snappy.

At his face, disfigured and… handsome.

At his hair, short and soft, which, if they had not been cut in that way, would have been wavy, maybe with some rebellious tuft to clutter his high forehead, and that shone with an eye-catching golden light.

She looked at that eye, so blue, so bright, so beautifully glittering, now that it didn't look glowering.

At that mouth, firm and strong-willed.

At those lips, now not distorted in a mocking grin; now bent in a captivating smile. Those lips, so alluring, so… appealing.

A devil. And an angel.

A devil and an angel also… also for T'Pol, who had been saved by him just like her and T'Pau.

And... and who...

Who had donated herself to him.

*_…Had donated herself to him..._*

To that devil.

To that angel.

That man was...

_He was..._

T'Pau suddenly felt blaze inside, unable to understand, to comprehend what was happening to her.

_He was a man…_

Not even able to grab that thought, to realize that she was having it.

That thought...

Thin. Tenuous. Light. So light as to be insubstantial. Slight. So slight as not to let itself caught.

_A man to love?_

* * *

_**End of Chapter Thirteen.**_

_**TBC**_

**ooooooooooooooooooooooo**

_Just so, my friends._ _Love is really blind and follows strange ways and unpredictable._

_And it is really mischievous._

_It's an angel._

_It's a devil._


	14. Chapter 14 Preparations

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

_**Chapter Fourteen**_

"_**Preparations"**_

* * *

_Preparations? For what?_

* * *

**oooooooooooooooooooooo**

**oooooooooooooooooooooo**

Now she was fully present to herself.

That strange, never before experienced, feeling of lightness, of rarefied serenity, of aloofness, even, that she had felt before, was gone, or better, was still there, in her head, inside her, in some way, but it was not such blinding, such dazzling, such... all-encompassing, behold, as to cancel everything else, to make her only want to abandon herself totally to it, to vanish in it.

Her eyes moved attentive and curious.

Where was she? Who were those two women, practically equal to her in their appearance? Vulcans? Like her?

Slaves? Yes, of course, slaves, dressed ... naked as they were, in that way.

Slaves, belonging to her own race, who were assisting her? At… her service? And... in that great room full of light and air, with that large window that overlooked onto that garden that could exist only in the palace of the Emperor?

Or in...

In a dream?

Could it be a dream? A... a beautiful dream? But dreams are not so... vivid, so real, as far as she knew. Oh sure. Because Vulcans do not dream, or rather suppress the memory of their dreams, since it is not possible for them - it is dangerous - to revive, inside themselves, their dreams. They would run the risk of being disrupted, not to say destroyed, by them, by their dreams, because the real world and the dream world, would not allow the Vulcans - if they were permitted to co-exist, to intermingle - to maintain the integrity of their well-ordered mind, unable ... well, yes, admittedly - unable to control two such different and colliding worlds. The Vulcans would end up being seriously confused. Lethal, this, for them.

Anyway, in any way things were, T'Pol was a Vulcan, and, therefore, the memory of her dreams vanished automatically in her, indeed, in her, as in all Vulcans, the dreams were forced to evaporate as soon as they hinted to appear to the forefront of sleep.

Consequently, it was impossible that she was having a dream. She did not dream. Period. Although... well, yes, she seemed to have done so. Recently. Indeed, just before waking up in that room. Or maybe ... maybe not. Perhaps she had not dreamed, perhaps she had caught a glimpse of ... something akin to dream, but true.

She... she did not remember.

Something confused was stirring in her, but she did not have memory of this, nor of that room, nor of how she had got there. The last thing she remembered, clearly, was a bed in an unknown infirmary, nothing else. And Phlox.

And... Tucker.

Alive and well, as the doctor, even though this one, actually, had not exactly appeared in... excellent conditions.

Tucker.

Who had gone away.

After having talking to her with... sweetness.

After having recommended to her to recover fully, to think only of that.

He. Just he. Tucker.

Whom she had greeted, telling him... telling him to be careful.

Because she wanted him to come back, safe and sound, to her.

No matter what he was going to do.

He.

Just he.

Tucker.

Who had saved her, had taken her away from that cage of horror, before...

Before...

T'Pol closed her eyes, unable not to tremble inside, at those horrible memories.

However...

However, it was weird. There was no longer, in her, that anguish ... yes, anguish, this was the word ... that anguish... even more, that agonizing terror, that she had felt in her Katra; that ... she realized it perfectly... had brought her mind on the brink of madness.

How was it possible? How come? What had happened that had made her healed? So well?

That made her feel so quiet?

And strong.

It was something that had happened after that Tucker had left her. Sure. Although ... yes, it was necessary admit it, a first, incomplete, wave of peace had already lapped her spirit when she had seen again Tucker and when the two of them had spoken to each other. Very strange, this circumstance, even embarrassing, in a way. Requiring much meditation. For sure.

Whatever it was, it was different, now. She couldn't remember having ever felt so good, with a mind so calm and yet alert. Yes, something had happened in the interval between the departure of Tucker and her awakening - her two awakenings - in that place.

But what?

She...

T'Pol clenched unconsciously her eyelids in a bid to concentrate, to bring into focus her mind, trying to remember.

But she did not remember anything. Or almost.

Vague sensations. And strange.

Also... unpleasant. Indeed distressing. But some of them even enjoyable. Sensations, both the first and the second type, which... yes ... which related to Tucker. One more time.

But she could not remember.

Regrettable, yes. Decidedly regrettable.

T'Pol was not at all pleased about this, not in the least. A Vulcan should not and can not have gaps in his rigorous mind. That's unworthy. And dangerous. But perhaps this was the result ... yeah, sure ... of her dreadful experience. No one, not even a Vulcan like her, and, in a way, this was... comforting, could go completely unscathed, without any wake, without some... unwelcome aftermaths, through an ordeal such as the one she had had to undergo. Atrocious, a Human would have said. And... it would have been correct. However, considering that she had been able to recover so well, perhaps, over time, she could also be able to go out from that state of... mnemonic incompleteness.

So she could have had an explanation for everything.

Also...

Also for that strange "thing".

A sort of vague murmur that she felt in her mind.

She was certain, she had already perceived it before, on her first incomplete awakening in that room.

And she felt it even now.

It was not unpleasant, in fact it was… nice. It was... was a sort of caress. This was the comparison that came to her mind, and this made it even stranger, because she had never received caresses, did not even know very well what they were.

Although... although... actually...

No, it was not really true. She had received caresses.

Rough.

But also... sweets. Pleasurable. And... terribly arousing.

From Tucker.

When she had asked him to meet her needs. Her Pon Far.

Tucker.

Again him.

Once again in her thoughts.

And... even this she could not understand... it seemed to her that the murmur inside her, that kind of soft and harmonic sough, gentle, had, it too, something to do with him.

A sort of... presence.

Telling her he there was, was alive.

And was there.

Somewhere.

With her.

T'Pol opened her eyes as if to make sure if, by chance, it wasn't true, if he weren't there, really, with her, and she saw that the two women were looking at her. One of them had something in her hand. It seemed a kind of communication device.

Had they communicated with someone? Had informed someone _– Tucker. Tucker, was he really there? Got back? From where he had gone?_ - that she was awake? And restored? And fed and thirst quenched? And so, able to receive him, because in the condition he had told he would have wanted her to be, before he were willing to explain to her...

Enough. There were things that she could not know and that hopefully would be revealed by Tucker, when he would again been in her presence. He had promised her, had told her that he would reveal to her how he could be alive, after having been given up for dead by all; and how the doctor, he too, could be there with him, he too alive; and where all they were, she included; and what they were doing there and how he had managed to earn that rank - General - and who was that Alien, Vulcan and not Vulcan, who had entered the infirmary and who had said to him, Tucker, that the time had come for him to go to do what he had to do.

The Alien... who had frightened her. Yes. Illogical deny it. It was so.

Maybe, who knows, he, Tucker, or, more likely, the doctor, would also be able to reveal to her what had happened after he had left her, and how it could be that she felt so well. Why she felt so... at peace.

What was that thing ... beautiful ... inside her mind, which made her feel so good.

Which recalled to her mind… Tucker.

Tucker. Tucker. TUCKER. He always.

Why... why had she thought of him when ... when she was about to be overwhelmed by death and ignominy?

And even… - T'Pol realized this, now, for the first time, now that her mind was clear and calm, that her body and her spirit felt good as never they had been. - …even when... when her persecutors were preparing her for her execution; when they had locked up her, naked and helpless, and in the cold, in a cave of her own home planet; when they had reduced her to be blindly famished and thirsty, and had beaten and tortured her, pitilessly, to weaken her body and her spirit...

Even then, in those moments, even if her mind, too benighted by so much sufferings, had not even been able to realize it, she had thought of him.

Of his arms. As of the arms of her unique possible… craved... saviour.

_His arms…_

Why had she thought of his arms ... of his _strong_ arms?

Why had she thought that they - _they_ - could save her?

And why, _how_, could it have been possible for this to happen for real?

And...

T'Pol became even more busily pensive, her eyes tried to catch something she could not see.

And who - _Who ever_ - could explain to her the incomprehensible, unheard of, attitude of... of... of sweetness that Tucker had had with her at her first awakening in the infirmary? And, even more, the incomprehensible, unheard of, feeling - _Feeling, just so, something that she could not understand, not even grasp_ - which she – _She, T'Pol of Vulcan_ - had felt for Tucker at that moment?

And which was still...

Which she still...

…felt.

*_Feeling._*

A feeling that she… that she… had felt…

Had _already_ felt…

Without understanding…

_Before?_

Before, when she had…

And the question, inevitable, arose in her. She had come to the point.

T'Pol had already wondered this question so many times, without daring to give an answer. She remembered well, sure, to have addressed this question to herself even then, when, on her waking in the infirmary, and in front of the unexpected and… welcome attitude on part of Tucker, she had responded him with an identical soft attitude, with that strange… feeling… within her. But this time the question was imperious. This time, now that her mind, her whole being were so clear, so crystal clear, as never before, and that somehow she knew that her fate was tied to that answer - she could not deny that it was so - she could not evade it. She could probably not have been able to provide an answer, a _plausible_ answer. _Logical_. But she could no longer dodge the issue.

_*Why?*_

_Why on earth had she had wanted him to meet her needs? Why she…__** had given herself to him?**_

What was the boost?

That ... that feeling?

Possible?

POSSIBLE?!

She... she had to know! She had to... she had to find someone able to give her the answers. All the answers.

THAT ANSWER!

It was important. Tremendously important. For her, for what she was. For what she would be. For what - T'Pol realized it, all of sudden - perhaps, she would have had to accept to be, to become.

And...

The enormity of the idea struck suddenly T'Pol with the force of a hammer.

...And for the fight, ultimately, that she had undertaken against the Empire.

_Eh sure. Because that Empire was the same Empire against which Tucker had acted to save her!_

Why, regardless of how it was possible that he was there, alive and well; regardless of how he could have become what he was there, the General Tucker, and no matter how far back in time - yes, it certainly could not be something that had matured in the short span of time that had elapsed from his alleged death - his hidden second career could sink... why, regardless of all that, Tucker had saved her? And after ... - Another feeling, a sense of ... of guilt - ... after what she had done to him?

Why had he rushed to her rescue?

Because... because he, just he, just Tucker, nourished a feeling for her? That maybe he did not even know to have and that had got revealed in his running to her aid and in the attitude that he had shown to her when she had woken up?

A feeling that, perhaps, he hoped could be returned? That he hoped that she, too, could have harboured for him?

A feeling as strong as to induce him to fight against the Empire? _**His**_ empire?

But then that feeling, if it came to this, could have been important not only to her, for her future; it could also have been important for the future of her race. Of any race of the Empire.

For the Empire's destiny!

Because it was a powerful weapon! Frighteningly powerful! To the point to change Tucker, maybe. To the point, even... perhaps... to change also her.

Was it possible that the destiny of the Empire could pass through, could be changed, through... through Tucker? Through her? Through that feeling?

Through that...

T'Pol dared give it the most appropriate name.

Although unable to fully understand what it was.

Although frightened by it.

*_…sentiment._*

That maybe Tucker had for her and that ... that...

T'Pol realized. She understood, at last. She surrendered.

_And that, perhaps, she too had for him!_

For a moment T'Pol remained inert in the body and mind.

Then her brain rebelled.

No! No no no, for the wisdom of Surak! It could not be so! She could not - HAD NOT TO! - feed such a feeling!

That sentiment!

She wouldn't search for any answer. She could not have _**that**_ answer. **She didn't want it!**

It was not possible, was not eligible, that she could harbour feelings of... of ... oh Surak! Of what?!

She was a Vulcan. A Vulcan! She couldn't have feelings. SENTIMENTS! She couldn't indulge in them!

Feelings. Sentiments! And… and for whom? For a Human? A HUMAN?

**FOR TUCKER?**

The worst of the Humans!

No. It was not true.

It would have been not true even if it had been true.

And if it had been so true to be true, she would have fought against such sentiment.

With more strength and more determination than against the yoke of the Empire!

And she would make it.

It was - had to be - another after-effect, yes, another bad consequence of what she had been forced to endure. Sure. On the other hand ... on the other hand, much as she could feel splendidly, much as her mind could be clear and perspicuous as never it had been, it was also true that she was a little too emotional. Yes. Exactly. The perspicuity itself of her brain made her understand this. And this was not - could not be - because she was emotional per se, or ... or because she ... because she had become emotional by the fact that she had met Tucker in the road of her life, because he had made her so. Because he could exert such power over her!

It was a consequence of the ordeal undergone by her.

Exactly.

And it would disappear. With time.

She would have not surrendered!

And she would have won.

She would have returned to be the T'Pol of before, the T'Pol of ever.

And Tucker...

She... she would have used him again. She would have taken advantage of his new weakness.

She would have used that weapon - that feeling, that sentiment, which was only his, of him, not hers. Not hers! - to fight again against the Empire.

And to defeat it.

She had been given another chance and she would have not lost herself chasing silly mirages.

Too bad for Tucker, if indeed he harboured feelings for her.

She was T'Pol! T'Pol of Vulcan!

The logical law of case had put her in his hands, but she would have known how to reverse the situation.

It would have been enough to use the same means that she had used the first time, and with even greater chance of success, if it was true that the attraction which undoubtedly Tucker felt for her was such as to give birth in him to… to a feeling for her; such as to make him believe that she could nurture a similar feeling for him. She! T'Pol! T'Pol of Vulcan! A… a feeling… a sentiment!... for…

For Tucker.

He... he was nothing more than a means for her. A toy in her hands.

She had deceived him once and she would have done it again.

She would have fooled him.

Without second thoughts. Without any remorse. A Vulcan does not feel such ridiculous feelings.

And this time she would have made no mistake.

The decision had been made and it was time to act. T'Pol did not want to wait any longer.

A sort of frenzy seized her. She had to get up. She had to act! She had to... had to stop thinking!

But she'd also need to know, in order to act; to know at least something. She could not afford the luxury of making false moves. She had to have some answers; not all, only a few, the bare essentials. Just what she needed so as not to make mistakes, in that environment she did not know, in that situation that she could not dominate. Something. She had to come to know at least few things. Immediately. Just then. At that moment.

Those women. They had to tell her something. At least who they were, what was - _where was _- that incredible room where she stood.

And why she was there.

_Why... _

Another feeling, one more yet. Another strange sensation and... strangely pleasant.

Something…

A... a languor?

A soft, pleasantly poignant, languor.

_... why she was supposed to meet Tucker there, in that room or..._

An image in her mind.

An image of her and Tucker.

A **vivid, intense** image of her and Tucker.

_...or in the garden... _

_In that beautiful, verdant, leafy, lush..._

…_and shady and wrap-around and…__** concealing**__… garden._

* * *

"Get up, Denobulan."

What the heck! The doctor was caught lost in thought.

One of the two guards had entered - the usual, the one to whom it had touched the thankless task of having to deal with the physician.

The doctor stood up. He was tempted to respond in kind to that harsh tone, but... best not to overdo it. He had managed to gain a little respect from those two guards, but, with the respect, you do very little, when you're under the ground.

And then, perhaps, it was the message that he was waiting for.

"At your service." A little good servility was not bad.

The guard raised an eyebrow. Damn! That Denobulan made him really lose his head!

"The two bondmaids send to tell you that the Vulcan female could be ready. They ask you to go check out. As established."

Ah, well! Well for the good news per se and also because it had been given ear to him. His position was definitely improving.

"Here I am. At your command. Let's go."

The doctor got out from the infirmary, in the hallway, where the other guard was waiting for him, escorted from the first on whose face, now that anyone could see, a more and more puzzled and bored expression was getting showing off.

For the beard of the Emperor! That man, that Denobulan, was disconcerting. You never knew what to do with him. He was able to make a man eager to make him into pieces and this could not be done, because you could not do, and that's that, but also because it was never clear if he was making fun of you or not, and for what purpose, in the bargain. Maybe that damned had remained too long along with Humans. It was known that Humans were disconcerting, that they were able to confuse the minds. Such as that damn Human General, that Tucker, who was said being able to bamboozle even Valdore. Gosh! It was certainly not to be envied their leader, since he had to do every day with the Human General, compared to whom the Denobulan was supposed to be little more than nothing!

Damnit, damnit and damnit! But why the heck, they, the big shots, had not despatched him in some suicide mission instead of putting him to watch that damn Denobulan doctor?

* * *

One hand, gentle but firm, stopped T'Pol.

"You may not get up. Not yet."

T'Pol stopped, with her upper body half lifted from the bed.

She looked quizzically at the woman who had spoken in a voice quiet but steadfast.

She and her partner had approached the bed, while she was lost in her ruminations, and now they were there, preventing her from getting up.

T'Pol was tempted not to listen to her. Enough with orders. What would have happened to her if she had ignored the order? All in all, she had got it, they were there to serve her. She, evidently... was important. She had been rescued by Tucker, but was also in his hands, in his power, therefore. In a nutshell, she… belonged to him, in a sense. Or perhaps... in the true sense of the word. But if she belonged to Tucker, as it ... well, yes... as it was clear, and if Tucker, as it was equally clear, was important, then so was she.

So then, what could happen to her if she had turned a deaf ear to that order, to say it in the manner of her Human master? To the order of two bangles? There, to serve her?

Nothing.

Or maybe not? The fact that she belonged to Tucker, did it mean that she too was a slave? And a slave, as important as she could be, could she go unpunished if she disobeyed an order, albeit coming from another slave?

Most likely not, even considering that maybe such an order from a slave could have been the reflection of an order coming from higher up, perhaps coming from Tucker himself.

And she could not afford the luxury of defying Tucker. Not yet.

Too many were still the things that she had to know, too many the answers that she had to have before being able to act, before being able to formulate a plan with some solid foundation. She knew nothing of where she was and of whom and of how were those to whom it belonged the place where she was and who had reduced to slavery those two women. She could only count on Tucker. She was really in his hands, for much more than for only one reason.

Nor, much less, she could run the risk of alienating those two women, the two slaves. They were on her same level, if not, perhaps, slightly lower down, in grace of the rank that evidently Tucker was holding. They could have been her allies, even if unaware. In any case, they were the only approachable hookup that she had, for now; the only available source of information to which she could presumably resort without venturing too much.

She could not antagonize them, putting them in a state of embarrassment, which could have had the effect to make them hostile to her.

T'Pol went back down without protest. But, probably, it had come the time to speak. Gently, quietly. A tranquil objection, made with kindness. Nothing more.

And also a probe. An initial exploratory approach.

"Why do I have to stay in bed? I feel fine."

Maybe it was not bad if she showed a little gratitude. And, after all, she really felt grateful. How strange. The side effects of her past disruptive experience made themselves really felt. Certainly, her past terrible experience; what else, if not that? Absolutely no other reason than that.

"Your thoughtfulness for me worked very well. I thank you. Both of you."

Neither the one nor the other bondmaids showed the slightest change in their expression, which had always shown and continued to be at all unemotional, almost stern. Just like that of a Vulcan. Were they really Vulcans, those two women?

However, and despite the static expression of her two possible fellow countrywomen, T'Pol felt that she had done well. If not, why that reply? It meant a lot.

"It is strange to hear a Vulcan say thank you", said the woman who had already spoken.

"It is not a trivial matter", stepped in the other.

"Especially in the place where we are", started again the first.

T'Pol pricked up her ears. Was it the moment? Could she dare?

"May I know where we are? And who you are? You seem... Are you Vulcan like me?"

It was a mistake. The two deadpan faces assumed for the first time an expression. They stiffened, and in those four beautiful dark eyes a shadow appeared, darker than them.

"We are on Romulus", said the first, in a cold voice.

"We are Vulcans", said the second, in an even colder tone.

Romulus! She was on Romulus! The planet of that unknown race that no one had ever seen, and from whose territory no one had ever returned.

That alien... that alien, the one who had frightened her, was he a Romulan, then? So resembling a Vulcan? And Tucker, how had he done to come into contact with them, namely with the Romulans? And those women, the two Vulcans, how had they done to end up there?

Quiet. Calm. Later. At the appropriate moment. T'Pol realized she had touched a sore point; had pushed herself too far forward. However, something, she had come to know, even if that something did nothing but multiply the questions.

She hastily resumed the subject of her first objection.

"Please let me get up. I'm very well, thanks to your cares, and I need to get up, to move, to walk."

The two faces relaxed. Good. So, it was fine.

"Not yet", said one of the two faces.

"Before, the doctor has to examine you", said the second.

"The doctor?"

"Yes", replied the first.

"The Denobulan doctor?"

"Yes", replied the second.

"Why should he examine me?"

"To make sure you're really ready", answered again the first face.

"Ready?" - T'Pol just believed to know what she had to be ready for. That room! That garden! – "For what?"

"You should ask: _for what and for whom_", resumed the second face.

So things were just so. And, on the other hand, how could it have been otherwise? But T'Pol wanted it to be said to her... clearly. At least she could finally have been able to stop making mere conjectures.

"What do you mean?"

"You belong to the Human General", said quietly the first woman.

"You shall give him anything he wants you to give him", said even more quietly the second.

"What is right that you give him", the first said again in a whisper, but firmly, in a tone that brooked no argument.

"Because you are his thing", the second ended in a sigh, which just in its feebleness resounded even more assertive.

_She was his thing._

T'Pol had understood it very well, but, inside, she staggered, in hearing it said so, in that way. With that stony clarity.

A thing. This she was. A thing. His. Of Tucker.

And he would have used her as a thing.

T'Pol felt something within. A knot. Sore. She could not ignore it or suppress it.

Feelings? Sweetness? Fables. Nonsense. Fruit of her mind so severely tested, not yet capable of being lucid in its thoughts and perceptions in those moments, when she had painfully woken in the infirmary.

As instead... - T'Pol felt the knot hurt even more - ... it was now.

Tucker would have made her pay the price.

She had treated him as a thing, and now she was a thing belonging to him that he could treat how he wanted. As... a thing.

She had lured him with the promise of an encounter of love that she had not given him. Instead of love, she had given him deception and pain and now she would have been forced to give him what she had promised him and hadn't given him. And the power, the force, the control... the command... would have been his.

And… no sweetness in their new love encounter. No… feelings. Rough harshness. This. And, perhaps… most likely… surely… pain and suffering for her.

And maybe...

_How strange, odd, this idea, this thought, that she remembered to have already had._

…Maybe she deserved to be treated thus by him. Maybe... maybe it was true what her frightened, benighted mind had thought when she had been locked up in that cage of horror. Namely… namely that she deserved to be punished.

In the worst way.

Because she was not able to act, if not by deception. Even now, she had planned to deceive him, Tucker.

That universe of deception was part of her.

But that universe of deception had deceived her, had made her see things that were not true, had repaid her with her own coin, and now it would have made valid for her its only law, that that, implacable, governed the balance of power between peoples and people, anywhere, anytime.

The law of retaliation.

She had done with Tucker all she had wanted to do. Now he would have done all he would have wanted to do... with her.

With the thing that belonged to him.

For this? For this had he saved her? For vendetta? Was he really so powerful, there, in that place, that he could afford to do such a thing? And his resentment toward her, could it have been enough to drive him to do that, to risk his life, and not only his, to bring her there and take revenge on her? And that thing she had believed to perceive in him, when they had spoken, was it really nothing, then? Really fables, nonsense? Had she really deceived herself?

And why…

_Why she, who had decided to ignore the feeling that she had thought to feel in him. And… in her. She, who had decided to do to Tucker what she had done to him the first time. She, who was ready to use with him the same money that she had used with him the first time..._

_Why... she felt so disappointed?_

In the end he was behaving with her any more or less how she had decided to deal with him. What reason there was to feel ... to feel…

*_How? Sad? But Vulcans don't feel sad._*

Frustration. Anger, too. Yes. Maybe also fear. All this would have been if not logical, at least understandable. But the disappointment, the sadness, even... why ever?

What… what reason there was to sense that strange swelling of the eyes at the thought that she had deceived herself? At the thought that Tucker wanted from her... only that.

His revenge. Her humiliation.

And why... why, in spite of all that, in spite of everything, she felt within, still, again, that strange thing, that languor, sweet and poignant, that ... that tickle in her stomach, at the thought that, before long, she would have to give to his master, Tucker, what he wanted her to give him?

What was right that she would give him, because she was "his thing".

_Because she was his thing..._

_As the ancient legends told that Vulcan women were for the men they chose as their masters. Masters of their hearts. Their… Aduns._

If she had been Human, T'Pol would have boggled, and for a hair's breadth she didn't.

But… what kind of idea was ever that? How could such an analogy have jumped into her mind?

Evidently her brain was working perfectly, okay, but maybe it was still a little prey to fatigue.

But in this case… in this case, perhaps... perhaps her mind could be mistaken.

Tucker had saved her only to take revenge? To humiliate her? By taking so big risks?

But no. No! This was impossible! She knew Tucker. She had known him… intimately. He was hostage of the emotions, like all Humans, but he knew also combat them, knew how to be cool and rational. He was not a fool! He was intelligent, and capable, and skilful.

His mind was as sharp as his body was mighty in… lovemaking.

So... then… maybe she had not deceived herself! Perhaps, after all...

Suddenly, T'Pol felt it again. Indeed, in reality, it had never gone away; simply, she had no longer paid attention to it, so much taken as she was by her ponderings, by the situation that she had to face.

Persistent, continuous, without break.

That unknown, _sweet_, rustling in her mind, that she had already felt when she had woken up the first time in that room, and also at her second awakening, and of which she had offhandedly got rid, by tagging it again as something residual, due to the overload of her mind.

That murmur, caressing, which, incomprehensibly, did not annoyed her; which actually she had pleasure to feel. Which… which… she would have been displeased, if it were gone off.

Which now, right now, seemed to grow more insistent, almost as if wanting to tell her that it was there, that she had to listen to it.

That whisper, honey and soft, which seemed to want to reassure her and which, in spite of everything…, really did it.

Which said to her... said to her...

_What said it to her?_

"Well, well, well."

Phlox! He was in the room. And she had not even realized it!

He was there, just beyond the threshold. There were two men with him. They had the same appearance of that Alien. Looked like Vulcans, but they were also different. Not too much, but enough. And they were Romulans! Now she knew it. What did it mean that extreme similarity between her race and that of the Romulans? And could this have had something to do with the presence of Vulcan female slaves on Romulus?

The doctor approached the bed, while the two men - Two guards? - stood by the door.

The two women retreated to the sidelines.

T'Pol looked at the doctor from under the blanket. He was emaciated and in disarray. He was certainly not the doctor she had known... before, but was not even the doctor that she had seen when she had woken up in the infirmary, when he had looked haggard. Haggard, yes. And there was no longer that scared and lost look on his face. He seemed more confident, although there was no sign on his visage of the harsh hardness of the past.

What had happened?

The doctor brought near her his medical tricorder.

He passed the device back and forth, from top to bottom, from right to left and back, on her.

Without pulling down the blanket.

Without discovering her, how he would, without thinking twice, the Phlox whom she had known, the Phlox to whom it wouldn't have cared a damn to expose her, naked, to the gaze of those two guards, as well as to the eyes of anyone, and who, indeed would have malignantly wallowed in her embarrassment and her discomfort.

"Very well. Looks really that you, my dear, are perfectly fine. Even the muscle tone is in order. Perhaps you will feel a little bit of instability in your first steps, but it will be only a matter of a few moments. Vulcans have a great control of their muscular- skeletal system."

He turned to the two women, with making sure, with authority. "The environment and your carefulness worked perfectly. I congratulate you."

He turned his head toward her, a huge crafty smile on his face. "It is time for you to be prepared. Spruced, attired and decked out in the most appropriate way."

The doctor turned back toward the two slaves. "Proceed. You have…" – He looked at his watch – "six hours."

Then he turned all the way to T'Pol. "Eh, my dear Vulcan, it takes time for you to be ready..." - He laughed loudly and openly – "to perfection."

Finally he turned and headed for the door. He stopped next to the two guards. "Come on, guys, the General waits for news."

And he went, the two guards in tow, both with a strange expression on their tough faces - To T'Pol it almost seemed a kind of unhopeful impatience.

The door closed behind the three men.

T'Pol stared at it for a moment, to be honest with her brain a little… in disorder, now.

"Now you can get up."

The voice of one of the two women, the one who always spoke as first, roused her.

She turned her head and saw that they were there, next to the bed.

The woman who had spoken leaned over her and forced her gently to lift the bust out of bed. The other woman came up to help the first. Both helped her to her feet.

She remained that way, standing stark naked in front of them.

They looked at her, scrutinizing her clinically from head to foot.

"Much work expects us." It was again the first woman.

"Yes, very much. The signs of the suffered trials are slight, but still evident." It was the voice of the latter.

"But the raw material is very good", said the first, indicating T'Pol in her entirety, with a sweeping gesture of her hand, without further talk nor too much compliments.

"Undoubtedly", resumed the second, nodding convinced.

"I'm persuaded the Human General will be satisfied with the result", said again the first.

"Surely", said in turn the second.

And with that, one headed towards a door on the bottom of the room, opened it and turned around, motioning for T'Pol to get closer to enter the place where the door opened and the other took her gently by the hand and began to lead her towards the door, while supporting her with one arm, from behind.

T'Pol let herself be meekly led, a little uncertain in her gait, leaning without shame on the providentially offered arm by her caring maidservant.

While she went towards the area where she should have been _'prepared'_, a strange, illogical thought peeped flippantly into T'Pol's mind.

The Human General Human, Tucker.

Her master...

Would he have been really satisfied with the result?

* * *

_**End of Chapter Fourteen**_

_**TBC**_

**oooooooooooooooooooooo**

**oooooooooooooooooooooo**

_Well, my friends, what do you think?_

_General Tucker, will he be satisfied with the result?_

_We'll see._

_However, do not forget, somewhere else, perhaps, other preparations are in full swing._

_Do you remember a certain Empress and a certain snake in human form?_

_I believe that you have understood what I mean and to whom I am referring._

_And General Tucker will have to be very careful, as much as the result - __**that**__ result - might be good._


	15. Chapter 15 Clouds Near and far

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Fifteen**

"_**Clouds. Near and far."**_

* * *

_Clouds. Yes. Dark clouds._

_Tempestuous._

* * *

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

Valdore's eyes lingered yet a little on the screen, after that Tucker had come out of his room.

He observed a while yet the two women, the Vulcan and the Orion, but, in reality, his mind was no longer in the least considering what his eyes were watching.

His mind was reflecting on what his eyes had been able to see and his ears to hear, before Tucker had come out.

That is, nothing more and nothing less than what one could have expected.

Yeah.

Nothing more and nothing less.

Nothing suspicious.

Theatrical. Sure. But Tucker was often theatrical.

Just as he was also capable of being as talkative as a stone.

And as_ hard _as a stone.

That man was a jumble of contradictions, and... sure... and often there was to wonder if what he appeared at a given moment, in a given circumstance, it was really what it seemed. Tucker... could be what he wanted to be. His human friends could have been living witnesses of such an assertion, if only one of them had been able to see him under times and circumstances different from those in which they had been able to do so.

Valdore stood up.

His brain resumed to record what was happening on the screen.

Nothing in particular.

The two women were sitting, side by side, in silence.

And in wait.

Soon, the two slaves would have returned to provide them with what Tucker had ordered.

There would have no longer been anything that were worth to be spied. It was evident that the two women were unaware of what was passing in the brain of Tucker, and, moreover, there was no reason not to believe that it weren't so.

They appeared surprised to be there, alive and well, at least as much as, let's face it, Valdore had been surprised to see that Tucker had come back carrying them along with him.

This was not like him.

He simply - so to speak - had to retrieve Harrad-Sar, thing that had been able to do. Paying a very big price, sure, but he had done it. But taking with him the two women... well, it could also have made run the risk of compromising the whole.

Normally... yeah, normally, Tucker would have got rid of any unnecessary weight without thinking twice.

And instead he had saved the two women and brought them with him. Why?

Oh sure, absolutely true, unexceptionable. Those two women were his spoils of war. And how he had defended this right! And well, one had to admit it. Just as he had defended very well his right to be the one who should have interrogated Harrad-Sar at the time this one had been able to withstand questioning.

But the figures didn't add up. Something was not right.

Spoils of war. Okay.

But, had it been worthwhile taking the risk of jeopardizing the outcome of the mission only to make them his spoils of war? The two women were beautiful, nothing to say, and there was nothing to be surprised that Tucker could be not immune to the behavioural model of the human soldiers, and not only human, towards the females to whom it happened to fall within the reach of their clutches. He too was a man, after all. But he was a man only apparently visceral, actually cold and calculating, even in full emergence. It was not like him letting himself be dragged by inopportune cravings.

Unless he, Valdore, did not know Tucker how he thought to know him.

And this... this was disturbing. Because, in this case, not only the fact that he had made the two women his spoils of war wouldn't have squared. Yeah, maybe some other things could have not fit.

Things also important.

Hidden inside Tucker.

Things that maybe... would have been better to know.

And, on the other hand, if instead things were not so, i.e. if Tucker was really the cold and ruthless calculating person, which, to all intents and purposes, he had always proved to be, then... why - again - making those two women his spoils of war when the last thing that he should have thought of doing would have been to think of doing such a thing?

Even in this case, then, there was maybe something hidden, something that, once again, would perhaps have been better to know.

And then...

And that's okay, spoils of war. Once again. Let's admit. Okay.

But… and that Vulcan female? T'Pol? Tucker had risked his life to save her, had spent himself really much to convince everyone that it was worth it. And he had succeeded. Undoubtedly he had succeeded, and with very good and compelling arguments.

Valdore could still hear the words shrewdly used by Tucker, along with the persuasiveness that he had been able to instill in them.

Tucker could indeed be loquacious like a stone, sometimes, and, sometimes, brazenly theatrical, but he knew how to speak, if needed. And how!

_T'Pol had become the emblem of the rebellion against the human Empire, an emblem in a sense even more significant than it was Harrad-Sar, because she symbolized the rebellion against the Empire in the house itself of the Empire, in its new and puissant heart. And, what was more, the rebellion of a member of a race that could not be more subservient to the Empire than it was._

_There was need to rescue her, then. There was need to save her and use her to stir up the revolt again, to give it new vigour. The Romulans could have used and would have had to use her in this way, for this intent._

_And in a sense it could be considered a favourable and advantageous circumstance that the rebel Vulcan were been destined to die, humiliated and torn, before the eyes of all, a circumstance that the Romulans had obviously come to know, and that was worth to be properly exploited. Sure. Because this offered the chance to rescue her in the most blatant way possible, in front of the petrified eyes of the Empress and of the whole Empire just at the moment when the Vulcan was being subjected to the terrible punishment that the Empress had reserved for her._

_The Empire, the new haughty, arrogant, powerful force of the Empire, struck in its very belly; suddenly; unprepared._

_And defrauded, clamorously and with impunity, of what that, of the woman who, in the intentions of the Empress, had to become, at the very moment of her atrocious death, the perennial symbol of her imperial power, of the fate that would have befallen anyone who had dared defy her Highness Hoshi Sato the First._

_This would have thrown the disarray in the ranks of the men of the Empire and would have shown to the peoples that the Empire was vulnerable, after all, could have suggested the possibility that the fight perhaps could continue._

_And there was another aspect to consider, in acting so, an aspect not negligible. Important. It would have also been a way to come out into the open. A little. Only a little. Only what was right. What was needed._

_Without actually revealing themselves, though, and with a very specific purpose._

_The Romulan Empire would never have dropped in open struggle against the Humans, would never have risked a possible defeat in front of the Universe. The Romulans don't risk, if they are not sure of the result, and Tucker knew it very well. Not for nothing the strategy used by them to try to contain the expansionism of the Human Empire was the systematic infiltration in the vital ganglia of the Empire. The Romulans fought only if they were sure to win. So they had built their empire, subjugating races and worlds that against them had no chance of defence._

_But there was no need to march out, or at least it was necessary to do it only a little, so little as to be practically nothing._

_If unknown and unpredicted warriors had appeared out of nowhere to save the Vulcan whore, anyone who harboured some hankering of revenge against the Humans would have been led to believe that there was someone somehow able to oppose the Humans, someone on whom one could rely, and when T'Pol, healed from her wounds, had been able to do it, she, led by them, the Romulans, that only she, at this point, would know who they were, and… - _Valdore almost sneered._ - …by him, by Tucker, yeah, obviously, and hidden in the shadow, just as obviously… T'Pol, so, would have been able to coagulate around her, duly aided, the any forces that could be willing to resume the fight._

_Certainly, time was running out, because the Vulcan was by now about to be sacrificed. It was necessary to hurry and there were big risks, undeniable, but - how_ had Tucker said?_ - the game was worth the candle, and he, Tucker, would have been willing to accept in person all the risks and all the responsibilities._

Valdore this time grinned for real. In admiration, really. Damn! How Tucker had managed to well prepare the way he wanted to walk through. And this was even truer, by paying well attention to the rest of his arguments, to what he evidently tried to reach, even in the incontrovertible logic with which they were woven. Valdore still heard them resonate clearly in his mind. He could still see Tucker while he championed with coolness and determination his arguments with the Praetor.

_This was a unique opportunity that wouldn't have recurred ever again, most likely. It was peremptory to take advantage of it. And right away._

So Tucker had continued. And then... the stroke of genius. Because only of that, one could talk. Of a stroke of genius.

_But T'Pol alone was not enough. The table of the game had to be prepared to perfection, if you wanted to be sufficiently certain that the cards would have played to your advantage._

Valdore wondered how much the ability to bluff, as Tucker used to say, could have contributed to the incredible and rapid rise of the Humans, last comers, up to their position of dominance. The figurative rhetoric of the game recurred frequently in his speeches.

_No, T'Pol could have been not enough. It took someone else beside her._

_It took… Harrad-Sar._

_Eh sure. He, too, should have been rescued._

_Harrad-Sar._

_And properly utilized._

_Shown, alive and well, to the incredulous eyes of the entire Empire. Saved without anyone even knowing it, without anyone even being able to imagine it, from the stake where the last resistance of the rebels was about to be burnt-out. Wiped out, as all intelligence information reported, concordantly. _

_At his sight, at the sight of him next to woman who had dared to oppose the Human Empire at the very moment in which it, by virtue of the new acquired knowledges, was getting ready, with the new Empress, to destroy the rebellion once and for all; at the sight, next to her, of the one who had been the cornerstone around which the rebel forces had gradually clotted; at the sight of him, escaped from the destruction of the heart itself of the revolt, the rebellion's fire would again broke out. And would be flared up._

_Harrad-Sar would have been the hammer with which the rebels, invigorated and gathered around T'Pol, would have again tried to resist the overwhelming power of the Humans._

_And this time, successfully._

_Because expertly guided. Secretly._

_By the Romulans._

_Who would have become, almost without striking a blow, the new, undisputed rulers._

So Tucker had argued.

And the Praetor had been conquered by his arguments.

On the other hand, how do not be in agreement with him? The reasonings of Tucker, in fact, were really faultless. And this had appeared even truer in the light of what had happened later, when all had been able to see the Vulcan, T'Pol, fight like a warrior princess of ancient times in the cage of horror in which she had been locked up. If there was someone able to make revive in the Vulcans, and not only, strength, pride, vigour, courage of a time, this was just her, T'Pol.

Really she could be the woman, the leader, able to coagulate around her the forces still eager to counteract Humans.

But Valdore knew Tucker more than anyone else, as much as it was possible to really know that man. After all it had been him, Valdore, who had recruited him to the cause of the Empire of Romulus. So, it had not escaped him what lurked in the lucid arguments of the Human.

Tucker was trying to make a quantum leap.

He suggested a plan, a path of action that would have allowed the Romulan Empire to enter as a protagonist although without appearing in full view in the bloody game that was taking place. The result would have been great. The Romulans would have eventually become the Lords of the spatial quadrant, without any need to enter into an open war against the Humans and by partly acting in the wings, following the way of acting that was their own. But at the same time, Tucker was also looking for his own personal benefit, which was understandable, after all. In fact, doubly understandable. Ah yes. Because if it was already in itself understandable and _logical_ that he wanted to seize this occasion - an occasion for the Romulan Empire, but also a chance for him - to get a more prominent place – more… profitable, _advantageous_ - in the Empire of Romulus, it was also true that for him, in a sense, this was, at that point, imperative.

The Human had had to resort to the Romulans to make sure to be taken away from the ship of the new Empress, because staying there had become too dangerous for him, indeed, to be more precise, because _"the air, hereabout, is getting unbreathable_." On the other hand, it is not that he had to work very hard to convince Valdore of the convenience that he had to disappear from the ship where he was, if indeed, there, _the air had become unbreathable for him_, because (when in doubt, better to be cautious) there was the big risk that through him, when subjected to some _amiable_ interrogation, the Terrans could have come to know a lot of things about the Romulans and their business.

Better to avoid it. Yes, better.

Valdore remembered well the words that the Human had uttered in the context of the message that he had been able to convey surreptitiously, resorting to the particular device that he had devised. It could work only for very short periods, but it had been sufficient also to develop the strategy to follow, the action plan. Well, one had to admit, not only the fame of Tucker as the Wizard of the Engineering was indeed deserved, but he was also really skilled in planning things.

And in fact everything had gone in the right manner, in times and ways. Tucker - accidentally involving in this the Denobulan doctor; _accidentally_, even if this, later, had proved useful; the only thing that had not been foreseen, and that, on the other hand, could not be - had disappeared from his ship in such a way that no one would think to look for him and in a way that brooked no doubts or suspicions. He, simply, had died. And had died in such a way that nothing of his body could have been recovered.

More secure than that!

Furthermore, the way he had staged the farce of his own death would also very likely prevented someone (just to mention a person, Mayweather,) from deciding that the time had come to delve backwards into his life, with the risk of discovering, albeit with difficulty, something that could have been detrimental to the human agents infiltrated into the fabric of the Human Empire and acting on behalf of the Romulan Empire, and thus, ultimately, of harm to the Romulan Empire itself and to its plans. But, at that point, "with a Tucker died and died _so completely_" (these had exactly been the words just of Tucker), getting lost in a venture like that would have only been a useless waste of time. It was highly unlikely that someone would take the trouble to do so. Not even Mayweather. At least, it was to be hoped, with a very high chance that it were so.

Well, definitely the words of Tucker were bearers of truth, although, honestly, the doubt that the love for the theatrics that often distinguished the Human had played its part in the way he had disappeared, was perfectly legitimate.

Anyway. However things were, at that point, after he had left his vessel, it was a matter of fact that life had become even more dangerous for the human double-crosser. If possible, even more dangerous than it had been before. Sure. Because if before, all in all, even in the dangerousness of his living, he was still in his environment, in his world, now it was no longer so.

Now he had to stand in the middle of the Romulans.

And, of course, it could not be said that these loved him.

Tucker was a sneaky, sinister figure.

A traitor.

A worm.

It mattered little his past services, that, on the other hand, he could no longer perform. Hard to think of being able to send him back, on Earth, in a different guise, to resume his old job. Everything would have been to be rebuilt, with enormous difficulties and, all in all, with no big construct, not to mention that now, with the chaos resulting from the rise to power of Sato and the iron hand that she was preparing to use with the valuable support of Mayweather, such a thing would have been even more hard to do. Virtually impossible at the moment.

No, Tucker just had to stand between the Romulans.

And had to reinvent himself.

Of course, all recognized his great ability as an engineer, and this could have been very useful. His… _Magic_ could certainly have been helpful for Valdore's compatriots, as well as his knowledge of his countrymen and his experience in the military fleet of Humans. And the Romulans were pragmatic and opportunistic. Perhaps the first thought might well have been of getting rid of someone who could now also be considered unnecessary, but ... more logical, first, testing his usefulness in the new situation.

But the grip on the Human would have been iron; such as to crush.

He should have acted with a great deal, a very great deal of attention.

One false step. Small. Really small. And he would have been lost. More than before. More easily than before.

This would have been his life.

But Tucker, Valdore knew it well, was not a man such to lead such a life.

And he had immediately known what he had to do. Tucker was a man who always knew how to seize every opportunity. And his brain was always grinding thoughts over thoughts. Always.

And what had his brain milled? Well, now, the circumstances offered him a great chance, that he recognized immediately and that he, taking advantage, as long as he could, of his rank and of the obscure fame that he had earned, had hastened, with success, to bring even in front of the Praetor. Through him, Valdore.

Tucker had succeeded in making it that he, precisely he, Valdore, were willing to make himself promoter of his hearing in Senate.

The Human had revealed him some respects of his plan, few but sufficient to convince him to support him.

Also because, this was clear and had been agreed between the two of them with an iron pact, the control of everything, the supervision, the general command, would have been entrusted to him, Valdore, with consequences decidedly advantageous for him, if things had gone well.

And if things hadn't gone well... well... if the Human had been and, de facto, was able to live a life as risky as it was his, he too, Valdore, after all, could have accepted a little risk. Especially considering that, in any case, he could always shift to Tucker the blame for any failure, coming out from the whole affair, basically, unscathed.

The only one to pay, ultimately, it would have been him, Tucker.

Valdore sneered again. An acceptable covenant.

Moreover Tucker was well aware of all that, but he was also willing to accept that risk.

And besides, what other choice did he have?

He had to do something. He had...

_He had to suggest, or, even, to do, in person, something… really big._ _**More**_than big. Something such big to be able to make him unassailable, much as hated or reviled he could be. Taking upon himself all risks, of course, all the responsibilities. If he had failed, still assuming he had survived, he not only would have been lost, he would also curse among the most atrocious torture every moment of the little of life that would have remained to him.

But if he had been successful...

And he had been successful. Well, not quite, or, rather, not yet entirely. Only a half of the work had been done, maybe only a third, _less_ than a third. There was a mountain of work still to be done and, among other things, there was also to convince, by hook or by crook, not so much the Vulcan, T'Pol, probably, who at this point could only think that the only way to improve her position or even just to remain alive were that to do what Tucker would have told her to do. The logic foolishly devoid of feelings and emotions, _needlessly_ devoid of feelings and emotions, that the Vulcans tried desperately and vainly to practice, was, sometimes, their strength, but also, and far more often, their great weakness.

It made them inert. Not for nothing his ancestors, the ancient Romulans had left their brothers Vulcans to their fate. And well, they had done. Now the Romulans were a powerful empire. The Vulcans were pseudo-slaves of the Humans.

No, the problem wouldn't have been so much T'Pol, but rather Harrad-Sar.

That was a steel head. Very far from being able to be easily persuaded to collaborate, even by the most violent and brutal means, if even only a very small part of what was told about him corresponded to the true.

But Harrad-Sar was central, not only because he was supposed to be the mallet of the new rebellion, but also because it was necessary to pull out from him if it were possible to still count, someplace, as it probably was, on some resistance cells liable to be activated.

From there, from those cells, everything would have started again, with greater efficiency, thanks to the occult guidance of the Romulans, and, this time, even the Vulcans, almost for sure, and even the other breeds, like the Vulcans more directly under the yoke of the Human Empire, would have been of the game.

Thanks to the presence of T'Pol.

This too ... yeah, _all this_, too, task of Tucker.

It was more than a mountain of work. It was a chain, enormous, of huge mountains.

But the foundations had been laid and now Tucker had become… _valuable. _Not only, as in the past, as a precious undercover agent, not a simple spy, but a field agent, so good that he had earned the rank of General of the intelligence services of Romulus. Now he was something more. He was always a human worm, sordid and treacherous. Despised, contemned and disdained. But now he was a worm that was to be looked after.

In the best of ways.

Valdore smiled through gritted teeth.

Tucker, at this point, had gone even beyond his grasp.

He had almost made it.

The General Tucker was, perhaps, about to take flight, to become even more than the General Tucker.

He had even been granted the access, as only the great warlords could do, to the pleasure garden.

And, in that garden, he would meet his T'Pol.

Healed.

And properly attired.

Well prepared.

For her encounter with him.

Valdore realized suddenly the term he had subconsciously used to refer to the Vulcan female, regarding her relation with Tucker.

"_His_" T'Pol.

Well, of course. By now she was his.

She was his slave.

Belonged to him.

The law of Romulus had sanctioned this.

This result, well, this, Tucker had already achieved in full. Of course, a rematch better than this on the Vulcan bitch who had so sordidly fooled him, who, to say it with him_, so dastardly had taken him for a ride_, he could not have.

Valdore, and the Praetor too, obviously, had perfectly understood that Tucker, in suggesting his plan, was also trying to catch many birds with one stone, to use one of his colourful sayings.

And one of these birds was definitely T'Pol.

Valdore had grasped it fully.

Well. Nothing wrong with that. Nothing to say if, along with everything else, Tucker also tried to catch something… very personal.

But...

That unconscious "His" could also mean something more.

Humans used the possessive to refer to their lovers. And such possessive, sometimes, meant a deep bond.

A bond that was not slavery.

Something that his ancestors, and the ancestors of the Vulcans, his own ancestors, called, precisely, _bond._

Valdore sat down. Deep in thought.

Romulans were the ancient soul of the Vulcans, in them things lived, and facts, memories, that no longer lived in the Vulcans, if not like pale shadows.

Romulans were logical, but they were also passionate, somehow. In their own way, but they were. They knew what emotions were. They sometimes used them, even. Not as the Humans were capable of doing, but, in some way, they too resorted to them, sometimes. And they knew how they could be powerful. And unpredictable.

Romulans knew yet, though this no longer seemed to occur in them as well as in their blood brothers, the Vulcans, what it was, a Vulcan or Romulan, if you prefer, _Bond_.

And he too, Valdore, knew it.

And Valdore knew also…

Well. He had not ever seriously thought about it, but now, after Tucker had strived so much for saving the Vulcan, that T'Pol, who had so ignominiously treated him...

For revenge, of course, for revenge on her.

And because she was useful to his plan, to the cause of the Empire of Romulus.

However...

Why the Vulcan had given herself to him? Namely, why had she chosen him to satisfy her Pon Far? Her first Pon Far, considering her age. Valdore knew. He knew lot of things, things that the Human had said to him and things he had been able to deduce from what he had said to him, and also from what he hadn't said.

Understandable that she had decided to give herself to a Human. Per force. She was on a ship of Humans, surrounded by Humans.

But why to him?

She had plenty of choice and he, Tucker... well, it couldn't be said that his disfigured face was much appealing nor, much less, that he was endowed with a way of doing… fascinating in the eyes of a Vulcan female all etiquette and decorum.

Yet, she had given herself to him. She had chosen him.

Valdore became even more broody.

In his mind, the images started to flow of T'Pol, while she was fighting, indomitable, in the cage of horror where she had been shut up, naked and defenceless.

As… - This idea peeped out again to his brain - …as a warrior princess of ancient times.

A legendary warrior princess.

A princess by legend, who, like the legends recounted, could give herself only to the one whom she really wanted. Even without knowing it. To her champion. Even without knowing it. Binding him to her. Even without knowing it.

With the Bond.

Possible?

No. Impossible!

Yet... yet...

So many things, in that way, would have squared!

For example, why Tucker had wanted to save the woman at all costs.

Of course, his plan, the reasons that he had brought, were at all flawless. However, if Valdore's suspicions had some foundation in fact, then the effort of Tucker would have been more understandable. More logical to accept and to motivate.

And there would have been not even need to think that Tucker was deceiving everyone, including himself, in stating that at the basis of his plan there was essentially a will to turn the circumstances in favour of the intents of the Romulans and his, of course, even if of this it was merely possible to have an intuition; a will, it could very well be, not free from the legitimate desire to take a sonorous revenge on the vulcan female.

All this could very well be true.

Eh sure, because it was not said that he, Tucker, was aware of the existence of the Bond, still given that it really existed.

And, thinking about it, it was not even told that T'Pol herself knew.

The Bond, if what Valdore knew about it corresponded to true, could establish itself irrespective of the conscious wishes of the parties involved.

It ... it could establish itself when...

Valdore sank even further on the seat and in his thoughts.

_...when two Katras, made for one another, meet._

Full stop.

But this... well, this presupposed... presupposed a lot of things, but above all that, among all these things, in any case, the Bond could not take shape, if both... both of those two Katras, consciously or unconsciously, did not want.

So, T'Pol wanted it. She, first of all. _**She**_ was the Vulcan. In her and through her and from her the Bond could be born. She could also despise Tucker, outside, even hate him, but, inside... inside...

Valdore was not afraid to use the words, even those... those meaningless. Like that. But, strange but true, even in that universe of violence, that word there was.

And it could even be used.

_... inside, love him._

But Tucker also!

Even if he could be millennia light away from any thought of that kind, from consciously wanting to tie himself that way to T'Pol. However, he, perhaps, could also not want, but his Katra or the hell that Humans could have instead of Katra, if ever the Humans, and Tucker in particular, could have something... that one yes, it wanted it. Who knows in what manner, T'Pol may have been capable, unknowingly, of unearthing yet a remnant of heart, in the dark recesses of Tucker.

And... and was it possible, too, that, somehow, she had also unknowingly managed to ignite in that dead remnant of heart a faint spark of… love?

Valdore drew a long breath.

His brain began to delve into strange thoughts, unusual, odd, that he could hardly recognize as his own, that he himself almost did not understand.

But his brain sank further into those thoughts, not caring at all that he weren't able to grasp them.

The universe, the universe in which he, Valdore lived, the universe in which they all lived, was what it was, but there had been a time, it was narrated, when it was not so.

There had been a time when it existed not only the memory, pale and faint, of that word. Of that… feeling. There had been a time when it existed _love_ for real.

Whoppers? Well, yes, possibly yes, probably yes, definitely yes.

But everywhere, in the memory of the people who inhabited that infamous universe, there was the memory, pale and faint, of an ancient golden age.

Whoppers? This too? Well, yes, possibly yes, probably yes, definitely yes.

But...

_But… a Bond… if this there was for real…_

_And, even more amazing, then, a Bond between a vulcan female and a human male. __**That **__human male..._

For the second time, Valdore took a deep breath, quite unusually.

He shook himself.

He called himself to order.

Logic! Logic.

Clarity and coldness. And ruthlessness.

He was a Romulan! And he was Valdore. His task, and his own road, were those of the Empire of Romulus.

And if he had glimpsed some crack on the paving of the road, as he seemed to see now, he had simply to locate the crack and fill it.

_*So, then, let's see. Let's put into order.*_

The Bond.

Maybe it was a simple invention of his brain, always suspicious and at work.

But maybe not. Maybe it was not. Which could be very helpful in his dealings with the Human. Perhaps it would have been possible a little more of good and more effective manipulation on his part on Tucker.

Anyway, certainly, apart from such consideration, pleasant, sure, but, let's face it, not easy to translate into reality, Tucker being Tucker, in this way many facts could find an adequate explanation.

Also... well yes... also the incredibly rapid healing of Tucker. Eh sure. Actually, Valdore had not paid much attention; after all it could have simply been a consequence of the great ability of that doctor, Phlox. It was not a mere legend that he were really on the ball, a Human would have said. Cruel, treacherous, narrow-minded, but definitely capable. In the end it was not was a bad deal that, in a sense, he had ended up having to work for them, for the Romulans. Adequately… treated, the doctor could definitely be a good buy.

But, now, to think of it... Well! That healing had been really quick. Surprising. To think... yeah, to think about how Tucker had appeared reduced... Much, much worse than Harrad-Sar himself, who, instead, was still recovering. As if someone, _something_, something strong, and powerful, had been able to help the Human to heal. Swiftly. And well.

Something as it could be... sure... as it could be a Bond.

Yes. Many were the things that, in that way, namely by accepting the existence of a Bond, however improbable, illogical, absurd even, between the vulcan female and the Human, could be adequately explained.

Except...

Valdore's eyes ran back to the screen.

...except those two women.

_*Let's use logic._

_So... First. The Bond exists. In this case, much as Tucker may be a damn son of a bitch, to use an expression by him greatly appreciated, hardly, if not impossibly, it would have passed to him across the black hole of his brain to bring along with him the two women.*_

He could also frankly detest T'Pol, despise her, be eagerly desirous to humiliate her, but not banging into her face the presence of two females with whom he intended to… to shag._ (Beautiful, the human phrasebook. Very incisive.)_

Two souls had found each other, even without knowing it.

The Bond did not allow a third and fourth wheel.

So then, what were they doing there, those two women? Brought there, in addition, against even the slightest idea of prudence? At the risk of compromising all the fantastic plan devised by Tucker?

_*Second. The Bond doesn't exist. In this case, much as Tucker may still be a damn son of a bitch, difficult, again, no, really impossible that it could have passed to him across the quoted black hole of his brain to bring along with him the two women.*_

Once again, much as he could detest T'Pol, despise her, be eagerly desirous to humiliate her, even banging into her face the presence of two females with whom he intended to shag... well, bringing them there, against even the slightest idea of prudence, at the risk of compromising all the fantastic plan devised by him... no, it was not like Tucker.

So then, one more time... what were they doing there, those two women?

The presence of those women, there, was a puzzle that had to be solved.

Tucker did not do anything without a reason. What was the reason?

Certainly not that they were his spoils of war. That is, they were, of course, but there was no reason for him to make them such, in those moments, in those circumstances. And then, he knew that he would have already had a spoil of war. Indeed, much more. His personal bondwoman. The most… _satisfying_ slave-girl he could desire.

He could have demanded T'Pol as his personal slave, to _utilize_ her not only for the purposes of his plan, but also for… something else, with excellent chances of having her. And in effect, this, apparently – yeah. Apparently - had exactly been the intention of Tucker, if there was to lend an ear to what the Human had said just before leaving for the recovery of Harrad-Sar. And precisely this he had done, afterwards, getting actually T'Pol as his own slave-girl.

But, of course, the necessary condition was the successful completion of the mission. Instead Tucker had run the risk of compromising its outcome, losing precious time to save the two women.

So what?

Valdore concentrated. He reverted to the conversation that he had seen and heard unfold between Tucker and the two women.

No. Nothing to note.

But, to well think about it...

Well, wasn't it, by chance, that during his meeting with the two women, Tucker had been a little more dramatic than usual? As if he had wanted to... - how he, exactly Tucker, had once said? That way of saying, once you understand the meaning, was perfectly fitting - …had wanted to recite on the stage for his, for Valdore, use and consumption?

Could it be that he wanted... to protect the two women? But... but no! Impossible! And yet ... and yet...

Valdore almost gasped.

Could it be that that man, Tucker, was fighting against the Human Empire, against his own empire, for reasons... for reasons different from those of the pure hatred, of the insuppressible rancour, for what had happened to him, and to his sister, which had been the lever by which he, Valdore, had been able to recruit Tucker in that distant time to the cause of the Romulan Empire? Or, at least, not just those reasons? Not merely those?

To think of it, for what Valdore knew, rather few had been the times when Tucker had deleted, not in war action, persons not human. It almost seemed, in fact, that above all the Humans were destined to die, if need be, by his hand.

Even a certain amount of non-Humans, certainly, had been forced to switch to a better life following a _pleasant_ meeting with Tucker in performing his functions. However, in the most part of the cases, it came to people of not exactly exemplary reputation. Well, of course. Considering the type of people with whom Tucker was often forced to hang out...

However... yeah... however, much as ruthless and cruel, too, with those who were an obstacle to him Tucker could be, Valdore... eh sure... Valdore wasn't able to remember a single person... how to say? innocent?... that had died by his hand.

Eh yes. Valdore had never thought of this. But it was just so.

And those two women... those women whom he had saved... _were innocent_.

And he had saved them.

He hadn't wanted to sacrifice them for the sure success of his mission.

He had not wanted to leave them there to die.

In the hands of the Humans.

Of his compatriots.

Yes. It was so.

It was incredible.

But it was so.

But then, who really was Tucker? A man different from the man that Valdore had thought he were?

A man, well yes, a man different to the point to be able to somehow awaken something dormant in a dormant warrior vulcan princess of another era?

Possible? Really such a thing could be possible?

And if Tucker was not what Valdore had always thought he were, then, could it, perhaps, be also possible that even his intentions weren't exactly those that Valdore believed they were? That is to say, subverting the Human Empire by flanking the Romulans and supporting them in their plans, thus earning at the same time, in addition to the revenge against the Empire, against what for him the Empire was because of what it had done to him and his sister, also, which wouldn't have been so bad for him, a position of power in the new order that would have seen the Romulans replace the Humans?

Could there be something different in the mind of Tucker?

And, definitely by no means least, was it possible that he had been able to fool all, _**even him, Valdore**_, about… _about his real intentions?_

But then, if things stood so, what were these intentions?

Valdore had to know.

He had to.

Absolutely.

Or, at least, he had to know if he was deceiving himself or not. He could not... he could not admit to have allowed to be fooled like that by Tucker. For all that time.

No... it could not be.

But how to do to know?

In Tucker's chambers there was nothing incriminating, nothing that could look suspicious; Valdore had ascertained this since the outset, since the moment he had decided where the Human had to stay and what he could keep there.

The two women? No, useless to spy on them. It was clear that they knew nothing about. And also needless to spy on Tucker. That man... that man knew more of the devil! Yes! So he would have expressed himself! And he would have been absolutely right. Not to mention the not so veiled threat that he had made him understand. Substantially... _Be careful, Valdore. If something happens to me, something not too much clear, someone, somewhere, will know about it and what I know about you will be brought to the attention of all. _How it were possible for Tucker being able to implement such a threat, Valdore just did not know, but he… preferred not to risk it.

So?

What to do?

The Denobulan doctor? But no joking matter! Though he had been useful for Tucker and still could be, all could have been thought, except that the doctor, so _loved_ by Tucker, could know something.

And then Tucker would have used in his talks with him the same shrewdness that he had used to talk to the two women, if not more, considering how little, just not to say a nice anything, he showed off to trust him.

So? **SO?**

What...

What? But T'Pol, of course!

Certainly, she could not know anything. However… she was who she was.

Of course, hard to think that Tucker could indulge in dangerous confidences with his vulcan slave-girl, although the Bond had really existed.

But there are… circumstances in which the self-control, the self-mastery, of a man may loosen, and if there was someone able to cause the slackening of Tucker's self-control, of his self-mastery... well, this someone couldn't be but her. T'Pol.

Tucker with her, perhaps, would have been less cautious in speech; and in acting.

Maybe he could let slip something. Maybe he could get distracted.

Maybe he could leave some suspect trace. Anything. Something worthwhile to be investigated.

Yes, all this could be possible, whether the Bond existed or not.

But there was a problem, and anything at all of little weight. There, where T'Pol was now, and where she would always be, as a vested right to Tucker, it was not possible any surveillance.

Was not allowed to spy on the… meetings in the upper chambers and into the garden of delights.

This could have its positive sides, in a sense, because up there, consequently, Tucker would have felt freer, and so…

Without forgetting that, if indeed the Bond existed, it was not impossible... _could be_ not impossible that T'Pol could come to know, in some strange way, something that was in the brain of Tucker and that, knowingly, he would never have revealed anyone, T'Pol included.

_*If the legend must be true, may it be true all the way!*_

What could the consequences be of such a fact on her, on her behaviour, nobody could know, but some result, very likely, there would have been and, therefore, even more it would have been useful keeping a check on her.

Yeah, sure.

But how to do, if, up there, it was not possible any monitoring?

Mh… well…

Sure, no one could see or hear anything up there. _But there was who was able to access the quarters reserved to the Vulcan._

The two bondwomen assigned to her care.

Of course, they could not tell anything about the meetings and any talks between the Human and the Vulcan; not even to them it was allowed to be present; they had to stay in their small ancillary accommodation outbuildings, on those occasions.

But it was their job to look after T'Pol and her quarters.

Any odd word, any strange attitude, by the Vulcan, would have been noticed, and also any fact of this kind by Tucker, if, sometimes, it had happened that he were entering without waiting for the exit of the two bondwomen, or that he were allowing himself to remain a little yet, before to go away, even with them already present.

Unlikely, but not impossible.

And even every trace that could be left, it would not go unnoticed.

Well. It was certainly not much, but it was still something.

Okay. *_Let's see..._*

How to get the cooperation of the two bondwomen? But was there anyone who could joke about that? He was Valdore! He commanded. And that was all! He had just to order the two females to perform what he ordered them.

Mh… however. Well, if he had forced them… well yes, there was a risk that they could make it known to Tucker. Actually, Tucker was a figure who inspired fear. Futile and illogical to deny it. It was so. Not only that. He was a Human who someway had brought Romulans to grant him something that, until then, only the Romulans had been granted to have. This could increase very greatly his sway towards those who were in bondage. Best not to test which of the two, between him and the Human, the two slave-girls would have thought to favour. No. Better not. As Tucker would have said, what the eye does not see, the heart does not grieve over.

Okay. So what? Well, then, maybe, one could think to promise something to the two bondwomen, in exchange for their covert services.

All right. Pragmatism, first of all.

_*Very well. Let's see. Again.*_

What could possibly want a slave-girl in exchange for her being… a whistleblower?

Freedom? Mh no. No. There was not, there would have never been freedom for a slave. She would have understood to be deceived.

Damn! What…

Mh. Maybe… Maybe…

Was it perhaps possible to leverage on her anger of having to serve another slave-girl?

Maybe… _on her envy?_

* * *

Her Highness Oshi Sato the First sat on the throne, in the throne room, in the imperial palace on Earth.

On _her_ throne. In _her_ throne room. In _her_ palace.

On the planet that belonged to her.

As the whole Empire.

She settled well on her throne.

She looked around.

Mayweather bowed down before her.

And everyone - everyone - Humans and non-Humans, representing all breeds under her rule, genuflected before her.

She said nothing.

She did not smile.

She did nothing.

Didn't move a muscle.

Only, her eyes twinkled.

Proud of.

And frosty.

The Empire was hers.

And no one could escape her domination.

A dark light was kindled in her eyes.

Not even that bitch. T'Pol.

Not even her unknown saviour.

* * *

_**End of Chapter **__**Fifteen**_

_**TBC**_

* * *

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

_Stormy clouds, my friends._

_Definitely._


	16. Chapter 16 Slavery - The law of Romulus

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Sixteen**

**_Slavery_**

**"****_The law of Romulus"_**

* * *

_Slavery._

**_The law of Romulus._**

_Is there need to add anything else?_

* * *

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Here you are. Now you're ready."

T'Pol looked sideways at the slave. She tried to appear detached, unflappable, like a goddess of Olympus, a Human would have said. All this was something that she had to endure, against which she could not do anything, certainly not something in which she had to get involved, neither with her mind nor… nor, less than less, with her heart. But saying that she succeeded... well, the not so much disguised expression of mischievous amusement that she could read in the eyes of the bondwoman, even in the sought stolidity of her face, was even too much eloquent.

Oh sure, sure. The Vulcans are neither mocking nor derisive. They can not. Mh... they _should_ not. Yeah, sure, of course. Yet, eh yes… yet, as if to underline the unexpressed that her eyes expressed very well "And I dare say that the result is more than appreciable." the woman said, in a tone that couldn't resound if not wry and jeering, and not too much vaguely, in truth, while sliding at the same time her sneering and impish gaze up and down all along T'Pol, from head to foot.

The voice of the second woman joined the first and T'Pol couldn't help but record that even in her tone it could be sensed something subtly mischievous and bantering. "You can check it yourself, if you want it."

And the fact was that T'Pol was pretty damn longing to check.

_But what Surak was taking her?_

She turned toward the large mirror.

Oh yes. Really Vulcans have great capacity to dominate their moods, to conceal them, too, to the point to be even irritating. But what if, in front of you, you can see a certain famous, tough, vulcan female, dressed... well, maybe not exactly dressed... in a certain way, and most importantly, if you notice that that certain famous, tough vulcan female, whom you couldn't help but envisage in your mind as made up with pure steel, looks to appear bewildered, yes, and this may also be understandable and justifiable; amazed, even, however much she can be Vulcan, and this too can be okay; but also that, after all, she doesn't seem to be so vexed because of her unusual and _peculiar_ look? Maybe even not too much displeased? Perhaps... even slightly smug?

The famous, tough vulcan female, made up with pure steel, contemplated herself in the mirror.

Standing, in front of it, she gazed at the woman she saw reflected on its polished surface.

Her long hair, silky and shiny, was collected on her head in an important and soft hairstyle. Her face, so, displayed itself completely.

And it was... - T'Pol thought really this; she could not help but have such a thought. - ... _it was beautiful._

The complexion was pleasantly bronzy, the skin velvety. Smooth. Soft.

The mouth... _her _mouth... was… was sensual, with those full lips and meaty finely coated with a thin layer of a fine and brilliant red.

Her large dark eyes glowed - yes, one could really say so - _glowed_, under the perfect and elegant arch of her eyebrows, thin and dusky; under her long and soft eyelashes. From beneath her eyelids. Her eyelids… painted with skill; shining with a bright indigo.

They gleamed, her eyes. Darkly. And impalpably mysterious, under those eyelids. Gleamed, arcane and seductive, even more sensuous than her mouth.

Those eyes got lowered. They peered, almost with astonishment, at the rest of her.

At her body, full and willowy. Soft, smooth, shiny of perfumed oil, which, perfect, revealed everything of itself.

Brazenly and impudently. Cheekily and barefacedly.

Shamelessly.

T'Pol's gaze polarized on her bosom.

Nothing covered her breasts.

Erect and firm, their turgid nipples and the areolas finely sprinkled with a faint patina of indigo powder, they too like the eyelids, they displayed proudly themselves fully bare to the view.

And... T'Pol felt a warmth propagate across her ears, from the lobes up to the tips ... and that way they would have made show of themselves to the desire of the one to whom such vision was destined.

To the wish of the one to whom _they_ were destined.

As if being ashamed, yet sparkling of something, a feeling, an emotion, a... a smugness, a sort of hidden and unknown pleasure that T'Pol wasn't able to rationalize, her eyes - seeing perfectly, of course, but skipping to watch in depth, to fully record inside her brain, the way the rest of her _naked _body was making exhibit of itself under her _naked _breasts - went down sharply and briskly, up to frame her feet.

Nothing enveloped them, they too were bare and therefore it was perfectly possible to see the nails, glossy of a brilliant polish, red, like the thin veil that covered her lips. And like the enamel… - she raised her eyes and shifted her bare arms to bring close to her face her hands, extremely well-groomed, to better observe them, directly, not in the mirror - …like the enamel that coloured also her fingernails.

Her gaze was drawn to something that enveloped her right upper arm. A metal armlet, high and sturdy, golden, identical - she had not noticed before, but now her mind linked the two images that her brain had recorded - to the one that wrapped her left ankle.

But there was something else besides those two... those two _slave bangles._

Her mind was slowly discovering, as if she had difficulty to internalize everything together, the picture that she offered of herself.

Her neck ... around her neck...

Her hands snapped together with her eyes.

A burnished metal collar, from which it hung a small ring. Empty.

T'Pol turned abruptly toward the two women and looked at them with eyes full of questions.

There has been no need to demand by voice what she wanted to know.

One of the two bondwomen indicated with her finger her own left ankle and then that of the other, and soon after, her own right upper arm and then that of the other.

They wore the same golden bangles that enveloped the arm and ankle of T'Pol.

It was the other slave to make her voice heard. "These are the symbols, the tangible signs, the brands of our and your slavery."

T'Pol felt something inside, something that hurt. She knew she was now a slave, but those bangles... those bangles were put on her to remember her condition at all times.

However...

The neck of the two other slaves...

None of them two wore the collar that clutched her neck.

Once again, there has been no need of words from T'Pol.

The slave who had spoken came over to her. She looked at her straight in the eye. One odd note - a Human would say, perhaps, a note of regret, maybe ... of envy - sounded in her voice. "We have no right to wear that collar. You can. You can do it."

The other slave came up in turn. "For the Romulans, Vulcans cannot be nothing else than their slaves. We two, your handmaids and servants, we are slaves of the Romulans._** You**_ are slave of the Romulans."

There was something not said, in those words, something omitted, that stirred in T'Pol a sombre trembling, inside. But she said nothing. She realized, dimly, that she had to say nothing. She continued to listen, without moving or saying a single word.

"But you are a very special slave. You're not like us. Very few bondwomen can boast of being like you. We are just slaves and nothing else. We belong to all the romulan warlords; we must obey the commands of whosoever of them. You, don't. You belong to only one master. _One only_. That collar is the sign of his exclusive dominance over you."

Again intervened the first slave. "Nobody, who is not him, can command you."

The second slave-girl, one more time. In a very low voice. "And, apart from the two of us, assigned to serve you, only he can see you so."

T'Pol stood still for a few moments, slowly assimilating what had just been told.

A slave... special.

Whom no one could command.

No one except her master.

The only one who had the right to command her and... - T'Pol turned slowly back to the mirror. Her image looked at her with different eyes and pensive. - _... and to see her so._

Slowly, deliberately, T'Pol's eyes went down to look at the curvy body and shapely, showing itself without shame, of the woman reflected in the mirror.

Of her.

The belly, flat yet fleshy.

The navel, showing itself with pert effrontery.

The hips, slender yet shapely.

And further down.

Only one garment.

A golden high belt, a soft sash, limply resting on her hips, down, very down, which, starting from just above her groin, arrived just at the root of her thighs. Which just covered or, better said, revealed while veiling, the only thing of her not shown in full view.

The deepest flower of her womanhood.

A flower to pick up.

A flower already picked up.

A flower that had to be picked up, again, _that would have been picked up_, again, by the one, _the only one_, by whom it had already been picked up.

The only one who was entitled to see her so.

And to pick up that flower.

The heat at the ears of T'Pol has gotten more intense.

She could not help it. She remembered. The images. _The sensations._ Of her first and, theretofore and for several years yet, unique Pon Far.

Her first Pon Far. Which just _"that one",_ and _"that one only"_ had placated; which she had wanted to be placated just by him, by _"that one"_ and _"that one only". _The one who had opened wide to her the gates of sex and pleasure.

And then, her offering herself to him again, to... to obtain from him what she wanted.

Her deception against him, her trick, her swindle. Her betrayal.

The woman who was looking at her from the mirror seemed to watch her with mocking eyes. Reproachfully. That woman, that woman who was her, appeared as… was a carnal proffer of sex.

But what had she done, that time? Hadn't offered herself to him, basically, in the same way? She had enticed him with the promise to give him again what he had already once had from her. And then...

Hadn't she... hadn't behaved with him as a vulgar whore, a harlot, a bidder of sex, rewarding him for what, for... yes, for the _favour_ he had done to her, in that way, despicable and contemptible?

But... but now... she... she...

Now... now there was something… something…

Now it was… it was different. Now she... she was... she felt... she wanted...

T'Pol's eyes snapped upwards, by their own will, to look at her ears in flames.

And she saw.

She realized the presence also of those two objects.

Her ears... perfect and perfectly well-groomed...

Two jewels adorned them.

One for each ear.

Embellishments that she never would have thought to wear.

Earrings.

Two drop earrings.

Big.

Of diamond.

Shining.

Magnificent.

They gave her a provocative air. She realized this, too. They framed provocatively her face and, somehow, they clothed her. It was as if, in her practically complete nudity, she were wearing something that made stand out even more her provocative nudity.

And the point was exactly that.

She was ready _that way_.

She, fixed up in that way, _so naked and provocative_; so _provocatively_ dressed only by that small sash, basically only on her pubis, by those earrings also, in some way, that, all of them, in reality couldn't do anything else than underlining her _provocative _nudity; so _provocatively_ prettified by that red polish on her nails, by that makeup on her eyelids, on her lips... on her bare breasts….

She, in that way… exposed, exhibited, adorned in that way, sumptuously coiffed in that way… was really ready.

She hadn't remained surprised when she had been told that she was ready.

She knew she was practically naked, but hadn't remained surprised.

She knew she had to be so.

For that, she had been prepared.

_For being naked and ready for the one who had had her once and who now would have had her again_.

_For Tucker._

_Her master_.

And, definitely… her preparation had been very good.

Her preparation...

T'Pol suddenly found herself reliving within herself the just finished preparation, the unfathomable sensations, the... the baffling feelings that she had experienced as she was being prepared.

She had been permitted to perform some… necessary and important physiological functions, without being seen by prying eyes.

Then her preparation had begun.

Experienced hands and skilful had worked on her.

She had abandoned herself to those hands, avoiding thinking about what they were doing on her.

She had felt ashamed, sure. She had not been able to avoid feeling embarrassed and shamefaced.

Nothing really private had remained to her.

Those hands had washed and cleaned her naked body.

In every most hidden fold.

They had gently and expertly massaged it.

In every most hidden fold.

They had sprinkled it with perfumed oil.

In every most hidden fold.

They had toned up it with expert dexterity.

In every most hidden fold.

Yes, she had felt _greatly _ashamed.

And yet she had even abandoned herself to those skilful cares with… with a languorous pleasure. Something she had never felt and did not know she could feel.

Something…

A languor, precisely.

Strange... sensual...

A languor of waiting.

She was being prepared... for him.

And now she was ready.

For him.

For her master.

T'Pol watched herself in the mirror with renewed and acute attention.

And… she liked herself.

Abruptly and briskly, it went back to her mind that flippant question that had sprung in her in the moment the two women had started to lead her in the area where she was supposed to be prepared. _'Tucker, her master... would he have been really satisfied with the result of her preparation?'_

Her eyes inspected, smug, the gorgeous, alluring, provocative female who was looking at her from the mirror.

She.

Yes. _General Tucker_ would have remained maximally satisfied. To the greatest degree; to the extreme. And even more.

Behind her a voice rose, low and quiet. One of the two slave-girls. The one who always spoke first. "If the human General will find your appearance to his liking, he, if willing, may order you to give you to him."

The voice of the other slave rose in turn, low and quiet, even it. "And if he will find to his liking even… your performance, he, if willing, may affix to your collar, to that ring now empty, a small medal. A nameplate, with his name on it. An identification tag."

The first slave again. "Then, you will be definitely consecrated as his property. Permanently. Forever."

The second. "Whosoever will see the collar, will see that it carries attached the identification plate."

"And will know that you are a private and exclusive property."

"Of the one whose name is engraved on the nameplate."

"That you belong to him and to him alone."

"And you will live safely under his rule and protection."

"As long as..." - an interruption. Tense. – "...as long as he shall live."

There was a pause, burdensome.

Then, the first slave spoke again. Her voice sounded severe. "This is the law of Romulus."

Another pause. Then, again, the second slave. Gravely, like the first. "Play your cards right.

T'Pol stood still and silent for a few moments while the words of the ones she by now clearly knew being her two maidservants penetrated inside her, _settled down_, inside her. Their meaning. Everything. Even that strange, obscure, pain that aroused in her that _"as long as he shall live"_.

Then, very slowly, she turned again towards the two women. She stood firm, stiffly and haughty. She stared at them proudly, her arms at her sides, exhibiting with proudness her naked body and perfect.

She raised purposely her eyebrow. "I am ready."

The two slaves looked at her in turn, every sign of mockery now vanished from their eyes. They replied in unison, with conviction. "You are."

T'Pol turned back to the mirror. She looked again at the image of herself.

Her lips curled upward in a slight smile, certain and sure.

She nodded at the other self in the mirror, who seemed to nod to her in return, in assent.

Their red mouths moved together. And together they talked.

"I am."

And, in T'Pol's brain, that strange sweet hum that had taken to accompany her thoughts, buzzed, strong, by irrepressible delight.

* * *

**_End of Chapter Sixteen_**

**_TBC_**

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

_Wonder if T'Pol will be able to really play her cards right._

_What do you think, my friends?_


	17. Chapter 17 The Clouds Thicken

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Seventeen**

_**The Clouds Thicken**_

* * *

_Just like that, my friends. The stormy far clouds gather and thicken._

_And they approach._

* * *

**ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

"The pockets of resistance were a little more numerous and… _obdurate_ than expected, Your Majesty, but I can say with certainty that they have been reduced to reason."

Her Majesty Oshi Sato the First raised an eyebrow. The hint of a slightly snide smile crinkled her lips. "Do you want to mean, General, that the members of the resistance have seen fit that it was better to quit opposing my taking of power?"

General Obsidian, the massive, huge, blond Danish, so reminiscent in his appearance, and not only, of his predatory ancestors, the Vikings, smiled back at her, mockingly. He bowed his head slightly in nod of assent to his Empress. "I want to mean that all of them have been reduced to reason that they have no reason to fight. Indeed, to be more precise, simply that they no longer have any reason to exist, now or ever, Your Majesty."

The Empress leaned with her back against the high seatback of the throne. The smile on her lips got more marked. Definitely, replacing the lamented, poor, _idiotic_ Hayes with General Obsidian had proved to be really a good choice. It was necessary to admit it. Mayweather's suggestions were always excellent.

As evoked by her thoughts, the voice of her sneaky _"Prince Consort"_ materialized in the air, from behind her.

Sure. And from where else? Behind her. Always. Behind her shoulders. Always. Behind... the smile faded on the mouth of the Empress... behind her throne.

"And their relatives? Fathers, mothers, wives, husbands, children, grandchildren, cousins and whatnot, I mean. And friends as well. Yes, even those, and..."

"And even the enemies, yes. Just to be sure. Fathers, mothers, wives, husbands, children, grandchildren, cousins and whatnot, friends included. And the enemies, for good measure. All of them." The thunderous voice of Obsidian covered the querulous voice of the Empress' gigolo. His clangourous laughter filled the ears of Mayweather and of the Empress. "No bad or good reason... _no reason of any kind_… will any longer be able to blur the serene quiet of mind that they, all of them, have at last been able to find."

The Empress looked at Obsidian with a mixture of annoyance and amusement. Of course, the General did not even know what it was really behaving according to protocol, but ... eh ... the idea that he hadn't the slightest qualm to overtop so airily and brazenly that poisonous snake of her lover-servant-master, could not fail to arouse in her a secret sense of satisfaction.

But watch out. The General did not have to go beyond the limits. Mayweather was Mayweather, after all. For better or for worse, he ... yes, in a sense he was her, least for that time and… until she had not found any better; and she could not allow the General to cross the line with him, though not with ulterior motives and merely as a result of his exuberant way of being and to set himself. Prevaricating Mayweather meant, in some way, prevaricating her. It could be dangerous. Highly dangerous.

The Empress raised her hand imperiously. She, now, had really learned how to make the scene, and it was very satisfying to realize that she was indeed able to assert herself.

Like now. Obsidian fell silent immediately. He understood he had gone too beyond. He lowered his head, in respect.

The Empress savoured her power. It was nice, it was very nice, _heady_, to realize that no one dared to refute her dominion, that everyone bent down the forehead and shut the mouth at the presence of her, at whatever move or gesture of her.

At times, she wondered how that was possible. After all… after all, let's face it, she, before, had simply been the ensign Oshi Sato and she had just had the good fortune to be the only remaining non-commissioned officer able to seize the favourable moment. However, she had been capable, in doing it; even if... well, yes… even if, in fact, it had been Mayweather to push her to seize the opportunity. But the fact remained that all, now, accepted her new rank and power.

Why? Maybe because she was not the spineless Emperor who had held power before her. She was... had been... _a soldier_, skilled and capable, and the military echelons she now commanded were aware of that. She had chewed the same sweat and the same fatigue that they had had to chew. The muffled and protected palaces of the power had certainly not been the place where she had been brought up. For her, as for the troops of space and land that had responded to her appeal, the danger had been not only that of malice and betrayal, lying in wait at every corner, both in the power corridors and on the Starfleet ships. It had been the real danger, physical. _The fear_. Perhaps it was this. Perhaps, as so often had happened in history, the strength of the militia, which was the strength of the Empire, had wanted to support the one - a woman, even! - who could have fostered the aspirations of those who constituted the real force of the Empire.

The sinew on which it was holding.

Or... or perhaps because everyone knew that behind her there was Mayweather. And everyone knew how he was insidious.

_Careful not to step on the snake. Even through the boots, it might inject its venom._

She had to get rid of him! She had to - just had to! – ...to lean…to lean on someone else.

Alone, she could not last.

She knew it.

She needed someone.

She needed...

_Damned vulcan bitch!_

The Empress regained her coldness with promptness. Needless and futile getting mad. For now, it was Mayweather the one who was at her side, and she could not afford that he were taken lightly, that there were the slightest lack of respect towards him. She had to give strength to him, if she wanted to exploit his malignant slyness.

Her voice resounded cold and insidiously menacing at the right point.

"General, I am pleased that the pockets of resistance on Earth have been reduced to reason and, also, that it have been eliminated all the possible interpersonal connections that would have been able to foster their possible revival, in some way. But, General..."

Obsidian tensed in anticipation of what he knew was coming.

"General... "And it came."...where is _**he**_?" The question of questions. "I mean, our beloved _former_ Emperor?"

The General became livid. He could also be a proud descendant of the fierce Vikings, but the one who sat on the throne in front of him, was someone who would not hesitate to rip off one by one all the hairs of the beards of his ancestors, if she had liked. And the fact was that the only Viking beard present at that time, it was his.

And then... that treacherous snake! The gray eminence of Her Majesty! Ending up wrapped in its suffocating coils and deadly was something that really made the skin crawl!

But Obsidian had made his choice, if it ever really had been possible to choose between the truculent and unwarlike previous Emperor and the new Empress. Truculent, she too, but capable, and much closer to the troops of the Empire than it had been… _the beloved former Emperor_. And, most importantly, thing that - how to say? - hadn't to be overlooked at all, in possession of the new technologies and new weapons that the arrival of the Defiant from that other universe had made fall in her hands.

He had made his choice. And knew he had to face the consequences of that choice.

But that didn't want to say he could avoid finding himself to sweat profusely and visibly, as a result of that damn, falsely innocent, question!

"Ahem... my Empress, it is not... it is not known."

"It is not known?"

Damn, how it was deathly fluty, the voice of the Empress. "N... no, my Empress."

"I see." More and more fluty, damn it!

"Your Majesty..." Obsidian straightened his shoulders. What the heck! He was Obsidian, after all! A descendant of the Vikings, terror of the seas! He could not shake like a pantywaist, a wuss, a... a sissy just in front of a woman! Whether or not she was the Empress! "...as you know, the pockets of resistance were constituted not by military men and women. They, the soldiers, the troops of the Empire, are all with you. The bulk of those who have tried, here, on Earth, to oppose your arise is... was constituted by paramilitary forces manning the imperial apparatus of general control. Militarized patrolmen, in the last analysis. The imperial machine of repression.

"I know, General. So what?"

"Your Majesty, the Emperor would never have entrusted himself to them to organize a resistance, or rather, no one of those who really managed the power and formed his entourage, would."

"You mean, General..."

"That the outbreaks of resistance that General Obsidian reduced to reason were improvised and disorganized groups of foolish pseudo-combatants. Desperate people, resistant to a changing that they knew would completely subvert their condition, making them totally useless. And at all eliminable, as a result of their obvious unreliability, because too tied to the old order. Inextricably. Indissolubly. Too much associated with it. Too much compromised with it. They tried to sell dearly their skin, knowing that they would be lost in any case."

The Empress turned to Mayweather. She did not like at all that he had interrupted her in that way, but the issue was too important to indulge in resentful reprimands.

"All this is certainly true, I do not deny it. However, it is difficult to think that no one, absolutely no one of them, has decided to come to terms with me, is not so, my gallant counsellor?"

Mayweather ignored the term, adequately stressed by her with not veiled sarcasm, with which the Empress had turned to him, just like – _almost_ like - General Obsidian, who, if he had been required and had been able, would have fervently denied to have ever heard the Empress address her dark and powerful lover in that way.

But the Empress had hit the mark. She had understood what Obsidian was getting at before her _gallant counsellor_ and it was clearly seen that this one felt the blow. However, he recovered with incredible immediacy. "You do not deceive yourself, as usual, my lady and sovereign."

Obsidian very nearly winced. Wow! That _"my lady and sovereign"_, and its tone, were certainly not less so than that _"my gallant counsellor"_!

Difficult alliance, the one between those two. Undoubtedly. But, and this was the point and it was well to bear this in mind, it was an alliance that worked. Better not to get groped in unadvised adventures. Trying to take advantage, for your own benefit, of the sparks that squirted between those two, it meant to poke yourself between two crushing millstones able to reduce to a pulp anyone.

However, it could be a good thing that both the Empress and… her gallant counsellor had known with clarity that he was able to think with acuity. His rise to upper echelons was not over. He could rise further.

Obsidian assumed the quietest and most deferential of tones that his resonant voice could permit and intervened. "Yes, my Sovereign. If I may, I too would like to say that you're absolutely right."

Four pairs of cold eyes got pointed on Obsidian.

He did not flinch. The fierce Viking in him made his voice heard. Strong, clear and confident. "It is strange, very strange, indeed, that there have been no attempts of any kind on the part at least of some of those who tried to oppose, in order to change side, to try to offer you, my Empress, something they could or believed to be able to offer you in exchange for maintaining their position of privilege, or, even more simply, in exchange for their lives."

Obsidian took a breath for a moment, then resumed with vigour. "It is understandable that they, so linked to the deposed Emperor or maybe even just to his circle of courtiers, may have thought to be on the wrong side, in the sudden capsizing of the imperial power's possession. However, why descending so openly in the field, knowing they couldn't win against us, I mean against the troops of which you, my Empress, have solidly the command? Why not trying at least to implore your mercy and your favour? Why starting immediately in fighting against you, as if animated by the sacred fury of loyalty towards the deposed Emperor, when it is well known that everything of that class of maggots could be said except that they harboured towards the Emperor and his imperial court something also only a little deeper than a mere relationship of opportunistic dependency? And why such a foolish and blind stubbornness in their resisting, with weapons, against you?"

Another pause. Short, but not too much. For effect. "And why have we not found, to fighting together with them or anywhere else, the ones that would have been far more logical to find to fighting in the Emperor's name?"

Obsidian made another brief pause. He wanted to make stand out well what he knew was being stirring at that time in the heads of both his august interlocutors. "Where are the Emperor's Praetorians?"

From behind the Empress, Mayweather nodded grimly. The Emperor's Praetorians. Yeah. Where were they? Where were those robots, those cyborgs, programmed to protect and be faithful to him? Those mighty watchdogs of flesh and metal in human form, controlled by a human grafted brain, cleared of any memory, in whose neuronal circuits one only command had been imprinted, a just instinct?

Obsidian nodded in turn. His defiant security had returned at all. "They can not help but be at his side, to fight for him. And to be destroyed, if necessary, for him."

"But they did not." It was the Empress, this time. Gelid. "Have disappeared. Along with the Emperor."

Obsidian gave body to what had been left unexpressed by the Empress. "Do we have to think that the Emperor has vanished for real, once and for all, somewhere, surrounded by his Praetorian Guard, just in order to be able to count on some defence in case we discover where he's hiding, forgoing to claim the power that was his, or..."

Obsidian stopped, leaving unfinished what was so clear not to need to be said.

Mayweather stepped ahead from behind the Empress. He put himself between her and Obsidian. He stared piercingly at them both; Obsidian first, then her. "The Emperor is getting ready."

The Empress nodded. "He needs time."

Obsidian spoke in turn. He completed the argumentation that he himself had begun and that the Empress and Mayweather had caught. "We expected to find the Praetorians to fight, and instead we did not find any of them. We found those halfwits, who, in reality, had no really valid reason to rise up in arms against you. So, why they did it and why they did it so blindly?"

"Because they have been conditioned to do so."

"Yes, Your Majesty. Now, I think, it is clear. There's just enough to believe that this is so."

"The idiots we have defeated and destroyed have been induced to oppose in arms against us. It was expected that we would have lingered to isolate and destroy one by one all the hotbeds of resistance."

"Meanwhile, the Emperor would have gained time to organize his troops in an adequate manner, your Majesty."

"Yes, it really is possible. Indeed, considering the behaviour of those who have opposed against us, here on Earth, it is very probable, if not certain. None of the opponents that we have destroyed not only could not think to oppose us, but not even to desist from this futile opposition. The Emperor has the means to achieve such a result. The enslaved Vulcans at his service. Those Vulcans and their techniques of mind-meld."

Mayweather intervened, grimmer than ever. "Yeah. Now it is clear. But, even if the Emperor's Praetorians are calculated in three thousand and even though each of them is comparable to three hundred men, constituting, therefore, a potential army of nine hundred thousand men, murderously destructive and extremely difficult to destroy, the implementation of such a plan, knowing that, in any case, there can be no hope of winning against us - for the number of forces in the field, for firepower, for technology, for the space battleships that are in our possession, whereas no aerial unit or, even less, no spaceship is in the hands of the Emperor - would be completely meaningless if..." - Mayweather's eyes seemed to pierce the air. – "...if there weren't for them, for the Praetorians, to wit for the Emperor, the possibility of any help from someone."

The Empress sprang to his feet. "Our unknown assailants."

Mayweather nodded, his face grim and dark more than ever. "I think the time has come to seriously devote ourselves to the study of the traces left by unknown enemies."

The Empress eyebrow rose. Her eyes darted on Mayweather. "I am glad that you feel that way. Perhaps, then, it will be easy for you to allow your sovereign to be conscious of every possible element useful in this regard. For heaven's sake, not that I doubt that I am not already fully aware of everything that you may know. But, you know, maybe, with the many tasks that you have, it might have escaped you to say something. Oh something insignificant, of course, something very insignificant."

Obsidian frowned. What did they want to say, the words of the Empress? He watched Mayweather. Well, certainly the expression on his face was anything but serene. There was discomfort on his face, a clear discomfort. But even repressed anger.

Then, suddenly, that expression disappeared. The controlled Mayweather of ever reappeared and continued talking as if nothing had happened, with the controlled tone of ever.

"The rebellion is quelled and we... I mean, you, my Empress, you now have total control of Earth and on the Empire. The only thing missing to your total triumph is the physical elimination of the former Emperor. Now, it seems that there might be a connection between the Emperor, vanished along with his Praetorians, and the unknown enemy that twice wanted to show his strength, or, rather, his capacity for action. The need to eliminate once and for all the deposed Emperor now fits perfectly with the need to find and destroy the unknown enemy. Not to mention that this unknown enemy has in his hands both T'Pol and..."

"That damn bitch!" The Empress didn't manage to contain herself.

Obsidian pretended nothing happened. Mayweather grimaced. "Yes, my Empress. That damn bitch. And even Harrad-Sar. And, at this point, in light of our conjectures, there is seriously to wonder if the rescues of T'Pol and Harrad-Sar should be interpreted as mere demonstrative actions, as one would be led to think, intended to throw bewilderment in our troops, to test them in a certain way, but without a real force behind, since they have been followed by nothing of substance, or if there is some design behind these salvages, perhaps connected in some obscure way with the relation that we think may exist between the volatilization of the Emperor, together with his Praetorians and his court, and the unknown enemy who has struck twice for then getting lost in the nothing."

The Empress went next to Mayweather. She looked at him thoughtfully. "It's hard to believe that behind all this, assuming it is true, it may lurk the mind of the Emperor. Neither he nor any of the men of his entourage would ever be capable of such shrewd machinations."

Obsidian became very attentive. There was something in the words and tone of the Empress that said that was the case to pay a good ear.

Mayweather's voice resounded uncertain. "It could be one or more of our unknown assailants."

"So much inside the knowledge of the things of us Humans, of our fortunes, of the recent events, of the dynamics of our relations, as to be able to put together us, our troops, the Emperor, his Praetorians and Harrad-Sar? And..." - the face of the Empress became a waxen mask. – "...and T'Pol?" She recovered. "I mean, the only forces that, if properly helped, could attempt to oppose me, that is the Praetorian guards of the Emperor, together with the symbol of the defeated rebellion? Harrad-Sar? And together with..."

"Together with the symbol of the new, even if immediately aborted, rebellion, that is..."

"That is, T'Pol."

Mayweather said nothing. He did not say a single word. He just stared at the Sovereign. Intensely.

The Empress sat back on her throne, looking down, as if to conceal her thoughts. Then she raised her face and looked toward Mayweather. Her eyes were hard. "No. It can be none of our unknown assailants. The mastermind behind all this, is… - Her gaze became even harder. – "a Human mind."

There was a moment of disquieted silence. Something unspoken seemed to switch between the two. Then the Empress talked again. In a low voice. "Maybe the mind of a Human dressed as a Captain of the Élite Guard and of whom it was not possible to see the face."

Still silence, fraught with tension. Then, suddenly, the Empress composed herself. She raised her head proudly, almost defiantly. Her eyes appeared as wanting to pierce those of her partner. "Is it not so, my gallant counsellor?"

Mayweather nodded with gloomy eyes. "It's so, my lady and sovereign."

Then, silence fell again.

Many thoughts came crowding into the mind of Obsidian. Much as he were far from being able to grasp the full meaning of the exchange of glances and words between the Empress and her lover-adviser, nevertheless the overall complex was quite clear.

He too, like many others, was misled into thinking that there were a Human behind what had happened, namely the two raids, the one that had led to the rescue of that treacherous Vulcan, T'Pol, and the one that had led to the rescue of the damned Harrad-Sar, because it was quite obvious to think that the two incidents may have been linked together and that behind them, therefore, there could have been the same hand.

_The hand of the most logical person that one could think that could have some reason to save the traitorous Vulcan, as far this could appear incomprehensible._

And this was disturbing in itself.

Damn, damn, and damn again! A Human! A Human… against the Empire of Men!

But, to fill up the measure, a particular Human.

Famous and Capable. Feared.

A _**dead**_ Human, though.

Which was a little more than simply disturbing. Obsidian's Viking soul was not overly happy to indulge to such an idea.

But now the matter was that, anyway things could be and letting aside the non-negligible particular that the man, _the Human_ at issue would have to be somewhere else, rather than in the land of the living… Odin! Now the Sovereign and her cunning lover were even adumbrating the idea that the same hand, the same Human, might have something to do with what was happening now, here, on Earth!

This was shocking! However... however, their conjectures, their arguments, appeared ... seemed... so… so plausible!

Goddammit! Those two... those two were...

For the beard of Odin! Now Obsidian could fully understand why the Empress had become the Empress and why her prince consort was her prince consort. Their brains were as sharp as the tip of a sharp dart. Together, then, their brains, their ability to find connections between things and facts, to locate the key to the problem, to unroll the tangle, were impressive. There was no choice. Only Oshi Sato could be the Empress. Still provided that behind her there was her unsettling lover.

"They are hidden here, somewhere on Earth." Mayweather's harsh voice, which suddenly interrupted the heavy silence, shook Obsidian. "They do not have spaceships. They have to be here. On Earth."

Obsidian realized that the time had come to intervene again. Strange, very strange, but this time, in spite of all his mental acuity, the Empress' éminence grise was deceiving himself, and he, Obsidian, had to point it out to him. He would have gained a lot of points, if he had been able to take advantage of the occasion in an appropriate manner. Caution, however. A lot!

The General cleared his throat. "Oh… ahem…with all due respect, sir. It is impossible that we are not able to locate where they may be, if they were here on Earth. Now there is no room or place, above or below Earth's surface, which we can not display and check."

Mayweather turned slowly to Obsidian. He was disgruntled to admit it, or, better, he was disgruntled to admit of having thought such a silly thing, but it was true. The General was right. And yet...

He looked pointedly at the big, bearded Viking who had replaced Hayes. His voice sounded sly. "You are right, General. However, to get away from Earth, they would have to make use of a spaceship, indeed of more than one ship only, considering the large number of people to take on board, but all the ships of Earth's fleet are in our possession. Not to mention, then, that we would have noticed one or more spaceships getting up in the air and going away from the planet. And not to mention, also, that the Emperor's Praetorians are, in effect, a powerful army, but an army usable only as ground troops. Completely useless, on a space ship."

Obsidian stood silent for a moment, his lips tight. Uncertain. Should he dare? _*Oh come on! What are you waiting for, stupid Viking? That God Thor comes to speak at your place? You're in game. Play!*_ "Sir, a spaceship, even more than one only, that had risen in flight from Earth in the hectic days that followed the seizure of power by the Empress, would not have been noticed by our forces, far away from our homeworld and still disorganized, and no one, here on Earth, would have taken the trouble to notify us of such a fact. This for certain."

Mayweather furrowed his forehead. Mh, not bad, that man, really not bad. "True, General, true. However, the fact remains that all the ships of Earth's fleet are in our possession."

"But we do not know anything of the cargo commercial ships - of Earth, but, much more important, also not of Earth - that were stationed on Earth in those moments, and hardly, if not impossibly, we may ever know if and which and how many of them have flown away, to get away from the turmoil which was clear it was going to lash out on Earth as soon we would arrive. Moreover, the load capacity of those spaceships is much higher than that of our military fleet's warships. They are designed to allocate large loads. Even one of them would have been big enough to take on board the Emperor and all his retinue, the Praetorians included. Maybe a little uncomfortable, but there would have been all of them."

Oh yes. Not bad at all, the General Obsidian. A man to foster, no doubt. But also to keep an eye on. "True this too, but those ships do not have the speed of the ships of Starfleet. The rate of moving away of the hypothetical ship that was supposed to carry away from Earth the Emperor with all his men could not have brought this vessel on the run very far and at this point of the events, I mean now, right now, at this time, the ships of our fleet, now fully reorganized and able to support an effective surveillance network, would surely already intercepted such a spacecraft. And the fact still remains that the Praetorians can do nothing from aboard a starship."

"Mh... ahem... sir?"

"Yes, General?"

"I have no answers on how the Emperor or... whoever in his stead may intend to or may make use of the Praetorians, except that if it is true, as the Empress and you assume, that they are preparing, that they need time, that are waiting for outside help, then maybe the answer that we're missing could rest on the help in itself, I mean on the kind of help. But, sir..."

"Go ahead, General." Harshly. But with curiosity, with visible interest.

"If I understand correctly, you and our august Empress hypothesized the possibility of some sort of connection between the unknown raiders who have dared to attack us and the forces still remained to the former Emperor."

Mayweather narrowed his eyes. "Correct, General."

"Sir... do you remember how it has disappeared, literally, in the nothing, the unknown ship where it is presumable that it has been swallowed up that Captain of the élite Guard you and Her Majesty were talking about, together with the despicable Harrad-Sar and those two women, the Vulcan and the Orion girl?"

Mayweather stood for a moment speechless. Then, with a little of strain, he pulled himself together. Damn! Definitely to be monitored, General Obsidian. In every sense.

The Empress' ironic voice behind him called him to order. "It seems that you are right, my gallant counsellor."

He turned to the Empress and looked at her, puzzled and, in truth - and patently - quite annoyed. He just did not like being caught off guard. Especially in front of his august mistress.

This one gratified him with an amiable smile. "Aren't you glad? I'm telling you that you're right."

Mayweather didn't manage to restrain himself. "In regards to what, my… lady and sovereign?" It was not at controlled the tone of his voice.

The smile on the lips of the Empress became even suaver. "It seems that really the time has come to seriously devote ourselves to the study of the traces left by our unknown assailants, exactly as you said, my gallant counsellor. Obviously…"

Abruptly, the smile faded from the lips of the Sovereign. Her eyes grew hard and cold. Her voice rose.

Lashing.

"Obviously using all - I mean all - the information in our possession."

And peremptory.

"Let's find our aggressors, Travis Mayweather."

* * *

How much time had passed?

Much.

Too much.

How much time had yet to pass?

Who knew?

However, too much, in each case.

That inertia was intolerable.

It was intolerable that being clueless.

About everything.

About all things.

Locked, helpless, inside that ship hidden behind the cloak that hid it.

It was intolerable that not being able to know.

That being forced to remain inert, waiting for something that you could not even know what it could be.

Something which might perhaps never have come.

It was intolerable.

Intolerable.

That waiting, without being able to do anything.

He sighed.

He stood up.

He walked slowly across the microscopic room.

He stopped in front of the microscopic porthole.

He looked through it.

Darkness.

Lifeless and formless.

He pulled from his pocket the small communicator.

He looked at the emblem on the small device.

The sword piercing the Earth in the background of the cosmos.

The emblem of the Empire.

Of the Emperor.

He stared at it with desperate intensity.

_*Come on, my disfigured accomplice. Make a sign. Let yourself be heard. Is it me the one who should do it?*_

Without realizing it, he spoke.

"Do I have to call you?"

* * *

_**End of Chapter Seventeen**_

_**TBC**_

**ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo**

_And who is this one?_

_And who would be his "disfigured" accomplice?_


	18. Chapter 18 Revelations

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Eighteen**

_**Revelations**_

* * *

_Where it happens something important._

_Very important__._

_For__ T'Pol._

_But, you can swear, not only for her._

* * *

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Tradition has it that the chosen slave-girl, the chosen one to gamble the chance to be able to gain access to the narrow group of the high-ranking bondwomen, waits in the garden the one by whom she has been called to grapple in the undertaking."

"The one who has thought she was worthy to have such an opportunity."

"And who, strong by his rank and his valour, has successfully manoeuvred to allow her to try to grasp such a chance."

"Her consecration as high-ranking slave-girl, as slave-girl of exclusive property, or her rejection, symbolized by the removal of the collar, take place there."

"In the garden of pleasures."

"That's its name."

"It was created for this, for such trials, and also for being used for the love encounters between the slave-girls of higher level and their masters, and so it will be for you, always provided that you will be able to earn such a high rank."

"From this point forward, if you want to abide by tradition and wait there, in the area that has been assigned to you, the one who did to you the honour to grant you the privilege of being able to be, possibly, a slave-girl belonging to him solely, by gaining in this way the rank of slave girl of high level, there will be no one, there, besides you."

"Nor for the whole time that you will be busy in entertaining your lord."

"And even after, for as long as he will want to stay there with you, in case he will have found you to his liking."

"And so it always will be, whenever he wishes to have you or even just meet up with you."

"Always assuming, obviously, that he continues to find you to his liking."

"That, even after the success of the first time, you will be capable of maintaining high this liking."

"Your destiny is in your hands."

"In your body."

"In the use that you'll be capable of doing of it."

"In the use that you'll be capable of making _be done_ of it."

"By your lord and master."

"And in your total..."

"...complete..."

"…unconditional…"

"...submissiveness..."

"...to him."

"To your only lord and master."

"Lord and master of everything of you."

"Lord and master of the whole you."

"Lord and master of your body."

"Of your mind."

"Of your spirit."

"Of your soul."

"Of your heart."

"Of your…"

"Katra."

T'Pol almost faltered.

It was a barrage of statements. Of information. Of advices, too. Of exhortations.

It was as if the two women had loosened up; as if that "I am ready" from her; the acknowledging on her part, openly and... and with conviction, her status, what she was and had to be and what she had to do, declaring herself - wittingly and… and, undeniably, also... also willingly - ready for what was expected from her… it was as if all this had made them more willing to open themselves to her, in some way, to show her the road she had to walk along.

They were telling her… _you can do it._

But... but there was also something else.

That... that _verbal aggression _from them...

That reiterated, _cruel_, insisting - by enumerating, meticulously, point by point, all the conditions of humiliation, of degradation, of impotence, of physical and psychological subjugation in which she would have come to find herself - on all the mud in which she would have had to wallow and toss and turn, that she would have to swallow, even; on the mortifying days and nights that lay ahead of her; on all the infinite times she should have had to repel back inside her all her pride, of Vulcan, but above of woman...

All this, this way to behave…

It was as if they felt one kind of complacency, of hardly concealed malignant pleasure, in submerging her with the clear-cut, sharp vision of her status of slave, of her condition of irrevocable, humbling and demeaning subjugation.

They... they seemed to want to help her, maybe they wanted really to do it, but... but someway, they also took delight in displaying to her, at full, ostentatiously, unmercifully, _brutally_, the degrading and humiliating state in which she had plummeted.

Why?

Perhaps… perhaps…

It was weird, of course. It was not at all Vulcan.

But… perhaps… _for envy_?

She was a slave, like them. But she... could be a slave different from them. More mistress, perhaps, in a way, of her own destiny, than they could be.

It was in store for her a life of submission and humiliation, of obedience, of moral suffering, maybe... maybe even of _physical_ suffering, but she would have to be accountable to just one person, to her only master, if she had passed… the test.

Only to him she would have to bend.

To nobody else.

And… this thought… and the thought of having to be the sex doll of her master, exactly of the one she had ensnared with the promise to give him sex and had fraudulently duped, giving him instead delusion and pain...

These thoughts…

It was… it was humiliating, intolerable, the idea of having to be a slave-girl, _a sex doll_, but...

…_but she felt not unpleasant the idea of __having to be the slave-girl, the sex doll, of him!_

T'Pol faltered for real. By pure miracle she succeeded in not point it out.

A tumult of feelings and emotions, too, things that she never would have thought she could experience, began to pile, to tangle, tumultuously, not rulable, one above the other, one twisted with the other, in her mind.

In her heart.

Conflicting.

Even elusive.

Weird, weird, weird emotions; weird sensations. Weird thoughts.

As... as...

Underneath, yet some way also in the foreground. A feeling. A thought. Unfamiliar. Odd. Illogical.

_Agreeable._

A feeling of amused smugness; of... feminine vanity even. _Of pleased, gloating… feminine vanity. _

But what believed those two little female slaves?

Did they think she were not able to make him - _her master_ - sink into a seething lava ocean of pleasure?

Oh sure. Maybe they did not know who she was, what had passed between her and Tucker.

But she did not believe it was so, that they weren't aware.

And in any case, she knew it.

And she remembered very well what she had been capable of making him feel, in her Pon Far. With… with an adequate requital, certainly. This was to be acknowledged. It was... it was unbecoming... it was unseemly to have to admit it, but he had been able to reduce her... to a bundle of flesh and nerves quivering with pleasure.

But she, on her part… _she had been able to give him a pleasure that no other woman would have never been able_ _to make him feel._

She knew it. She was certain.

And... and it had been nice to feel so deeply… _female_!

But... but now she was not prey to any Pon Far. Things... things were different now.

It was not him the one who was called to meet her needs.

It was her...

_She_ was the one who was called upon to... to fulfil his desires.

All his desires!

And... she had to prove to be equal to the occasion.

And... and...

_And she wanted to be equal to the occasion!_

But what was happening to her?

How could it be that she...?

That she could enjoy having to do it? That she could enjoy having to be so? Prepared in this way. Nude. Ready for him.

That she could be content to be so for him? And... and not annoyed, not displeased... even... yes, even... _glad_ of having to be his slave-girl?

Of having to submit to him in body, mind, spirit, soul, heart.

In what was the truest essence of Vulcans.

_In her katra._

**What Surak was happening to her?**

What was that... that whisper… that trill, now… inside her, deep inside her... that was singing? By joy!

"So what? Have you decided?"

"Will you follow the tradition?"

The voices, quiet but also impatient, of the two women drew T'Pol to reality.

And the reality...

T'Pol tried to shake herself, to react.

The reality… the reality was not - _couldn't be!_ - that of those feelings, those emotions that stirred within her; of those _strange, inconceivable_ feelings; of those _strange, inconceivable_ emotions.

The reality, the real one, was... was... was that she was in a position of disadvantage. Yes, just that. **Only **that. And that she had to manage to reverse the situation.

Yes. It was like that.

That trill of joy, that sang inside her, it was not... was not a trill of joy for what soon would have happened between her and Tucker, between her... and her master.

Of course not! Even this was... was a stupid, illusory emotion. One fallacious interpretation of her mind, so tried, that attempted in some way to rationalize a situation that was everything except rational. Her mind, that did not have time to recover from an ordeal that was immediately plunged into another, equally tough.

It was...

It was a recall. Exactly. A recall. Badly distorted through the deceptive lens of her particular present mood, of the understandable state of psychic vulnerability in which she was at that moment. She had been a free woman, at least as much free as it could be a Vulcan under the yoke of the human Empire. And now... now she was reduced in the darkest slavery! And far from any foothold that was not Tucker, just the one who was destined to be her master!

She could also be the strongest of Vulcans, but anyone's mind would have faltered in such predicaments.

But she had to resist. And she was able. She could.

And that one was a recall. This was. A trill? Yes. Of course. Of contentment? Yes. Of course. Unseemly, but this too, true.

_Yes, it was indeed contentment._ Exactly. Just like that. But _**not**_ for what would have happened a little later, for what she had become for Tucker. His slave-girl- His sex doll.

No. No. No and no!

Contentment... because her subconscious mind had already understood, readily grasped, what with the ratiocination her conscious mind had not yet grabbed. Namely that she had in her hands - had in her body, in the use that she would have known how to do of it... that she would have known how to make him do of it; _him_; _her poor, deluded, lord and master_ - the way to reverse the situation.

In a little while she would have met Tucker. He would have gloated at seeing her so, naked, at his beck and call. Reduced in his power. Subdued to him. In the need to let herself be taken by him in any way he wanted. In the need to make herself be liked by him, for the only purpose... just like that... for the only purpose, ultimately, to be subdued by him.

In order to stay alive. In order not to be subjected to the harassment of anyone of those Romulan warlords.

His revenge on her would have been perfect.

And this would undoubtedly have been true. But without even imagining it, he would also have supplied to her the opportunity to try again to reach the goal she had set out to achieve and that she had failed.

In the long run, the winner would have been her.

His slave-girl? His sex doll?

And why not?

Why not, if this was the way that she would have to use to turn the tables and get at any cost, as it was right that it was - _as it was __**logical**__ that it was!_ - the goal that she had set for herself?

This was the means?

Well, then she would have used such means.

At the best.

Tucker had saved her to take revenge of her?

Possible.

But the desire to take revenge of her could not fully justify the risk he had run. Certainly. For sure. It could not be just the fact that, in ways that she was not currently in a position to know, he had found himself in the possibility of rushing to her rescue and that he had done it just to take his vengeance on her. It was not logical and Tucker was perhaps not as logical as a Vulcan, but he certainly was not illogical to such an extent. She had already had thoughts of this kind, and these thoughts were… _logical_.

Could it be that he was planning to use her in some obscure way that she did not know, for some obscure purpose that she did not know, in that obscure alliance that he appeared to have with Romulans against ... yes ... against his own Empire? Against the Empire of Humans?

Yes. Possible this too.

Two birds with one stone, he would have said.

But was all this enough to explain, really, completely, why he had spent himself up to death, literally and in first person, to save her?

Revenge, atrocious revenge on her, along with some unknown use he wanted to do of her?

Only this?

_**This only? **_

So then, was it to be just ignored, to be utterly forget, without bothering to try to find any reason, the attitude of gentleness, unusual, unthinkable, but real, palpable, that he had shown for her, when she had woken up in the infirmary? The attention, _the care_, tough, sure, but well perceivable, that he had displayed for her?

Okay. She, too, had shown to be unusually gentle with him. But she had excuses.

That ... T'Pol shuddered inwardly ... that cage of horror. How could anyone think that her mind could emerge unscathed from such an experience?

At that moment, at the moment of her awakening in the infirmary, in the confusion she felt, amplified in the bargain by the disconcert to have to be faced with a Tucker who was supposed to be dead and that instead was alive, her mind, probably prompted by his own attitude, had reacted that way. That was the cause. And now, in this other, new, and, in its way, even more difficult trial that she had to face…

_The two components of her mind, the unconscious and the conscious, were confused, were… were making a mess._

_That trill, in her mind_…

_Her mind, her mind, her mind!_

Her mind was evidently not yet completely healed, just that. And it was... it was mistaking the… the pleasure, _the memory_, of the physical pleasure that he had been able to make her feel with something different, deeper.

With the idea of a feeling that she could feel for him.

But it was not so.

_It was not__ so!_

To feel something, it was him! Her self-styled master!

It was him the one who felt a feeling for her!

Certainly. Sure.

It was so.

NOT her for him.

NOT HER FOR HIM!

And she would have taken advantage of this feeling for her on his part.

This was the lever on which she could and should act, the cleft in which she had to wedge and that she had to expand, penetrating totally into Tucker and taking…

_And taking complete hold of him._

_From within._

She was to be his slave-girl? His sex doll?

All right.

She would have been.

What harm was there?

This was the world. This was the Universe.

And she would have served him, even. In all respects. Totally and utterly.

She would have been his faithful slave-girl, always at his side, always ready at his beck and his wishes.

Would help him rise high, even higher than he could be right now.

And so she too would have risen high, at the top of her current possibilities. With all the potential positive consequences that that could entail.

But she would have done something more.

She would have slipped under his skin, much more than she could be now.

She would have ensnared him.

She would have enmeshed him.

Would have enfolded him.

In her suffocating mantle of pleasure and devotion.

She would have… **subdued** him.

Yeah right.

_She would have subjugated him._

She, his slave-girl?

Oh sure, sure.

But in the end the true slave would have been him.

And at the appropriate time, she would have used him.

Again.

_General Tucker, her master, enemy of the Empire of the Humans, ally of the Romulans against them, would have been the battering ram that she would have used in order to unhinge the power of the Humans._

And she would have achieved her purpose.

Yes. She...

"Maybe you prefer to wait here."

"It is understandable."

"It is true that out there, in the garden, no one can see you."

"Only your master."

"But it is difficult for a Vulcan woman accepting the idea of standing outdoors, naked, as you are."

"_In the way_ you're naked. "

"It is unseemly."

"Indecorous."

"It can cause discomfort."

"To a woman..."

"...a _vulcan_ woman..."

"...like you..."

"...who was not born in slavery..."

"...like us."

"We understand you."

"You can avoid doing it."

"You can abstain from respecting the tradition, if that's of weight for you."

"You can wait for your lord here."

"In this closed room."

"Not out there in the garden."

"Outdoors."

"Where it can make you feel more ill at ease the idea to have to stand this way, while waiting for your master."

"Naked."

"On offer to him."

The renewed gush of words of the two bondwomen shook again T'Pol.

She realized that she had been, for not a short time, silent and lost in her thoughts, distant, estranged from reality that surrounded her.

From the true reality.

The one where she happened to be, to act.

To decide. Obviously, what was granted to her to decide.

She awoke from her brooding.

Was able to see again.

To observe.

In front of her, the mirror.

Inside the mirror, a woman.

Splendid.

Naked.

On offer to _him_.

_She._

That splendid woman was looking at her.

Her eyes, dark and deep, were laughing.

They were laughing at her.

The woman did not speak.

Her red mouth was closed.

But it was talking.

To her.

It was telling her... it was telling…

Once again the gaze of T'Pol ran along the nude figure of the slender yet curvy woman, the splendid woman, who was watching her from the terse surface of the mirror.

_*Naked. On offer to him.*_

Her tapered legs, her shapely thighs.

_[His strong hands that wander on them, that fondle them. Everywhere. Up to inside their most forbidden recesses._ _His hungry lips anywhere on them. Everywhere. Up to inside their most forbidden recesses.]_

_*Naked. On offer to him.*_

Her navel, pretty and mysterious.

_[His warm impertinent tongue that explores it.]_

_*Naked. On offer to him.*_

Her arms, her shoulders, well-rounded.

Her well-shaped neck.

_[His voracious mouth that kisses and nips them. His rough greedy fingers that caresses them, strongly and delicately; his callous palms that rub against them.]_

_*Naked. On offer to him.*_

And her face, proud and beautiful. The bronze complexion of her smooth cheeks.

_[His ravenous mouth that kisses them everywhere with countless small moist hungry kisses.]_

The ears. Her delicate, pointed ears.

_[His fingers that titillate their sensitive tips. His teeth that nibble them. His lips that whet them.]_

Her mouth. Her red fleshy mouth.

_[That responds, covetously, to his kiss; that merges with his.]_

Her hair, silky and shiny.

_[His hands that penetrate inside her hairstyle, that mess-up it, that loosen it, that make her long hair fall over her bare shoulders, that press her head against his, her face against his, her mouth against his as their tongues fight fiercely with each other. As she closes her eyes getting lost in his kiss.]_

Her bare breasts and fiercely erect. Adorned with _nothing_**,** for him.

_[His hands on them, around them, perfect to be welcomed in his palms. His fingers that tantalize her nipples, her lips that greedily bite them. His mouth that gulps down them with arrogant rapacity. His blazing tongue on them.]_

_*Naked. On offer to him.*_

And that sash covering without covering anything.

_[His hands. Again his gentle hands and powerful. Which untie the sash. Which make it fall to the ground._

_Her quivering thighs. Which open wide. Which welcome him._

_Her wriggling legs. Which clamp him. Her ankles, which knot themselves to one another on his back, which fasten him to her._

_Her hands, her arms... which grab him, tighten him, embrace him, clench him against her, push him… deep down inside her!]_

And her hips.

Her naked hips, well-shaped and provocative.

_[His hands. Again them. Oh, his strong hands on her hips! His hands, that guide her to catch his pace, to match it, and then hold her firmly, as the world explodes around and inside her and she buries her face in his chest and her red mouth stifles in it her uncontainable cry of pleasure and joy.]_

_*Joy.*_

_*Naked. On offer to him.*_

_*__**Joy.**__*_

_*Naked. On offer to him.*_

_*__**His.***_

_*Of her lord and master.*_

_*__**JOY!**__*_

T'Pol reopened all of a sudden the eyes that she had unconsciously closed. Panting.

The voices of the two women emerged from behind her. As strange as this might appear, they sounded worried. But all in all it was not so strange. T'Pol was entrusted to their care. Not hard to imagine that they could pay bitterly if they had failed, even without fault, in their task.

"Are you well?"

"Something wrong?"

But T'Pol could not answer. She was trying to recover.

Those images... all those images, those sensations... shocking and… _and beautiful_... so vivid and real... that had crowded her mind.

That had flooded her heart.

That had burned her flesh.

And, above all… _the truth_.

With which she had been put face to face.

Without any longer the slightest possibility to circumvent it.

Because this truth had been poured forth on her in full face, impudently, ruthlessly, without any regard, by that woman.

That woman in the mirror.

_By her herself._

Their eyes, hers and those of the other herself in the mirror, met.

The eyes of that other herself were wide open, like hers.

Her mouth was half-closed, like hers.

And there was no need for that mouth to say anything.

T'Pol knew, perfectly, without fear of deceiving herself, what that mouth would have said if it had spoken. She knew the words, truthful, which would have come out of that mouth, that was her own mouth, if that mouth had let those words go out; how that mouth, that was her own mouth, would have given body to that woman's thoughts, which were her own thoughts.

"_It is joy, T'Pol. It is true joy. That whisper, that trill in your mind, which speaks to you of him, is a trill of joy because soon you will meet him. And you will be his._

_Because you are his.__"_

Her mind…

Her mind, which she wanted to believe that was deceiving itself, that was interpreting in the wrong way the signals coming from the deepest of her ego, from her subconscious...

_From her katra..._

Now T'Pol could no longer cheat with herself.

_Her mind wasn't deceiving itself. Not at all._

_Her mind wasn't misinterpreting what her katra was conveying to it. Not at all. _

"_He, your lord and master, T'Pol? You, his slave-girl? But yes, okay, that's fine. If here, where you are, it must be so, so be it. But you're already his, T'Pol, you belong to him. And it's you the one who wanted this."_

The truth, that one that that other woman, that other herself, who could afford to be - without qualms or taboos or inhibitions or shame - what she, _**she T'Pol**_, was... that truth brought with it other truths.

Truths, in which it lay the answer to the question, which so many times had surfaced into her mind, even during her… preparation, and that she had always eluded.

_Why had she given herself to him? Exactly to him? Why had she wanted it to be him?_

_**Why had she chosen him!?**_

Other images in T'Pol's mind. Other sensations. But not about what would have happened between her and Tucker, about what she _wanted _it to happen. This time they were not fantasies that drew lifeblood from what had really occurred between the two of them during her Pon Far, that she... that she wished they could be translated into reality. One more time. And… innumerable other times.

They were memories, this time. Memories. Hazy memories, but, now, more distinct, clearer, inside her. Images, sensations, _memories_, that surfaced from the mist that had shrouded them under the powerful push of the truth that the other herself was revealing to her.

The eyes of that other woman, _her own eyes_, dug into her. They rummaged inside her, forcing her to unearth what her mind, fearful and frightened, had buried into the deepest folds of her katra, but which from there, from her katra, had spoken and was speaking to it.

Those eyes, gaping deep inside her, brought those memories to light.

T'Pol remembered. Vaguely. Indistinctly. They were fragments, incoherent, disjointed, and many snippets were missing. But she remembered.

She was sleeping. Quiet and serene. Incredibly... quiet and serene. Then... she had found herself with him.

_Inside him!_

_She saw with his eyes, heard with his ears._

_She thought his thoughts._

He was fighting.

He was dying!

_He __**had**__ died!_

Her despair. Her struggle. To save him. To haul him back from that frosty dark that had engulfed him. Her relief. She had made it. How... she did not understand. But she had succeeded. She had succeeded using...

_That wonderful whisper inside her brain, that touch, that caress inside her mind, which spoke to her of him…_

_Which __**was**__ him…_

The Bond!

The legendary vulcan Bond!

Impossible!

_Impossible!_

Legend!

_Legend!_

Like… like that of the ancient vulcan warrior princesses!

The warrior princesses who, when meeting their champions, those capable of making them fall in love, the ones chosen by them - by their katras - as their champions, as their chosen ones... were able to tie to themselves, _if loved in return,_ their champions, their chosen ones, with the bond of the vulcan Bond!

_In the indissoluble vulcan bond of marriage!_

Legend!

**Legend!**

The woman in the mirror was looking at her intently. Her eyes mocked her, impudently.

"_Do you remember the cage of horror where you had been locked up, T'Pol?"_

T'Pol shivered.

"_Do you remember how you fought inside that cage?"_

T'Pol remembered. She remembered all the pain, all the desperate fury, hopeless, with which she had fought. She hadn't realized. And how could she ever have done it? Yet...and yet... could it be that it were thus, in that way, that the ancient warrior princesses of the legends fought? Fiercely, desperately, with all their might? Until the last moment, until the last of their breaths, until the end, even when they knew from the beginning that all was lost, that there wasn't any hope? And… and could it be that in her, perfect representative of that universe of violence, betrayal, degradation, it were reborn something of the ancient greatness of Vulcan? Of... of the greatness of those warrior princesses, if ever they had existed for real? So much that she might even have been able to give life again... to give life again to ... to a vulcan Bond? Because ... because she... _her katra_… had met the one... the one who...

A Human, a HUMAN! A being belonging to the people that oppressed hers, and, as if that was not enough, a Human who appeared in fight against his own people, a… a sinister traitor! But a Human that she... she... _her katra_...

"_Do y__ou remember how you wished his arms? His arms, strong and secure? How you wished that they could come to your rescue?"_

T'Pol remembered. Yes! Oh, how she remembered!

"_And they have come to rescue you, T'Pol. He re-emerged from the shadow for rushing to your aid. He rushed over at your call."_

How the eyes of the woman in the mirror stared at her! How they excavated into her!

"_You have met your champion, T'Pol. And you have bonded him to you."_

T'Pol gasped.

"_**He**__ is your champion, T'Pol."_

T'Pol struggled for breath.

"_Your Adun."_

"Please. Tell something."

One hand was laid on the bare shoulder of T'Pol. With obvious effort she turned her head to look with petrified eyes at the slave who had spoken, who was trying to get her attention, even gently shaking her shoulder. Hers had been a tone of manifest concern.

In seeing T'Pol's gaze, the woman became alarmed even more. "You are not well. There is something wrong with it."

"Do you want us to call the denobulan doctor?" It was the other bondwoman, at the other side of her.

"Yes, it's better we do it." It was the first.

"I do immediately." The second.

T'Pol burst out loud vehemently. "No!"

She turned hastily to be face to face with them.

They looked at her with visible incomprehension.

T'Pol took a deep breath; she gave it her all to calm down. Just by a whisker, but she succeeded in doing it.

She did not want the doctor. She wanted… her lord and master.

_Her Adun!_

"I'm fine." She managed to speak in a tone of calm and quiet. She hoped that also her face were appearing equally calm and quiet. The hands... she hid them behind her. She wasn't capable of preventing them from trembling.

The two slaves looked at her warily. They were not at all convinced.

T'Pol breathed a long time yet. She managed to finally quell even the trembling of her hands.

The tumult inside her, no. She couldn't. That inner tremor couldn't be repressed. Maybe one day. But surely not now. The truth that that woman, that more honest herself, had brought to light, was too powerful, too upsetting, even for a vulcan female, indeed, especially for a vulcan female, to allow her both to really dominate such truth in itself and to dominate the inner turmoil that it had brought with it.

But now she knew. Not quite, not completely. Many things were still missing. But the biggest thing, the most important, the most pregnant... yes, that, now she knew.

And she could not ignore it.

Nor she wanted it.

She crossed her arms on her back. She straightened up with pride, well aware of her beauty. And for some reasons, difficult to grab in their essence... she felt to be now even more beautiful. Outwardly, externally. But even inside. Inside her.

She looked at the two slaves with the eyebrow proudly raised. "I'm fine, I tell you. There is no reason to postpone the test."

The two slaves stood silent watching her for a moment, then nodded.

"Alright."

"And where do you want to…"

"In the garden."

"You want to respect the tradition?"

"Yes. I..."

T'Pol turned her face toward the large window.

Beyond it, the garden, lush, was making a fine show. It was beautiful. The very first evening shadows were starting to get longer, among the trees, giving it an aura of bated mystery, of languorous waiting. An air of secret complicity.

It appeared really... it _was _really the garden of pleasures.

The ideal place where a slave-girl could await her lord and master. The best place where she could demonstrate to him her devotion. The ideal place where a bride could await her groom. The best place where she could demonstrate to him her love.

_The ideal place where she, T'Pol, could await her Adun. The best place where she could get lost in their Bond. _

_In him._

"... I want to respect tradition."

There was a moment of silence. The two slaves watched carefully T'Pol's face, her expression.

Then they nodded in unison.

"Very well."

"As you wish."

One went to the door next to the window that opened onto the garden. She reached the door and opened it.

Beyond the door a short and gently sloping stone staircase went down into the garden.

The slave turned to T'Pol, who had advanced into the room together with the other slave and who now had stopped in the middle and was watching the garden, inviting, which expanded at the foot of the stairs.

The slave remained next to T'Pol pushed her gently.

"Go."

T'Pol nodded.

She headed off slowly. She reached the open door. She halted for a moment to look at the bondwoman, firm at the side of the door.

She looked back beyond the door.

The garden of pleasures rustled down there, tempting.

She took the decision.

She crossed the threshold.

She went down the steps.

She reached the little path that started from where the stairs ended and that penetrated into the garden.

She took a few steps along the earthy pathway.

She stopped.

She turned back to look at the door that she had crossed, the room she had left.

No one was longer there.

The two slaves were gone.

She was alone.

She turned to the garden in front of her.

She peered through the trees.

She sighed.

Then she stepped forward. Slowly but firmly.

She ventured inside the garden, among the trees, in the middle of the murmur of waters that flowed quiet.

On her skin, on her naked body, the gentle touch of the scented waft of a gentle breeze.

Inside her, in her mind, that murmur, that whisper.

It was no longer a trill.

It was a chant.

Muffled and soft.

Of happiness.

A chant of love.

* * *

_**End**__** of**__**Chapter Eighteen**_

_**TBC**_

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

_So, my friends? What do you say? Was I right? Is it not important what happened?_

_I do believe so, yes._

_Ah. And T'Pol, this damn T'Pol of the Mirror Universe..._

_In your opinion, can she now understand that the chant that whispers its melody in her mind is a chant of love?_

_Do you know? I bet yes._


	19. Chapter 19 Hopes and Expectations

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso**

**Chapter Nineteen**

_**Hopes and Expectations**_

* * *

_In an universe of despair, may there be hopes and expectations?_

* * *

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Something had happened.

Phlox looked carefully at the face of Tucker.

Of _General_ Tucker.

Without making himself too much noticed, of course. It was not ... was not the case. Let's say that it was not prudent. But, in spite of that, frankly it was truly the case to dedicate an attentive look to Tucker's visage, to its expression.

Yes, something had happened.

Something... _had changed_.

Phlox had seen the Human appear before him all of a sudden. He had not realized that Tucker had entered the infirmary. The doctor was engrossed in his thoughts. Was thinking about T'Pol.

The Denobulan was expecting that Tucker would arrive. Sure. To ask at what point things were with T'Pol. To know if he could...

Oh well!

The doctor had basically taken upon himself, up to the bottom, the task, indeed the responsibility, to patch up T'Pol, to put back her into good shape, completely.

Well, not that he had much choice. Of course not. Actually, better not wonder what Tucker would have done to him if he had not fulfilled the way down to his… polite request

But... well, however, in the end, Phlox could not say that this task, whilst arduous, whilst intimidating, to the point to make him scared shitless, had been so unpleasant. And... well... and not only because of what he, in accomplishing such assignment, had thought to come to know. No. **Had** come to know. There couldn't be any doubt about the veracity of what he had understood that was going on. Things - Phlox repeated this to himself one more time, almost to convince himself - things that could prove to be extremely useful to him.

Anyway, the fact was that...

Oh, shit! Difficult, damn difficult, and even odd to admit it. But it was so. That thing, strange, unpredictable and unexpected, that he had seen - literally - take concrete shape in front of his eyes, that Bond, that Vulcan Bond, _that legend_, shewn real in front of him, had not passed in vain on his skin. And if it had not passed in vain upon him, let alone how it had had to pass, _how still was passing_, onto the skin of Tucker and through,_ inside_, what only the hell could know he could have as a soul, but which, since the Bond had been established, had to exist even within him, someway, somewhere, as much as well concealed and well callous such a thing, this so called soul, could be. Whether Tucker were aware of what was happening inside him or not. Whether he were aware or not of… of the dirty trick that T'Pol had played and was playing to him, but that, without a soul within him_, a soul eager to bind itself to that of T'Pol_, **never** could have occurred.

And that look, that glint, not at all intimidating, but indeed... _hopeful_, in his eye, the one healthy...

Damn! That shimmer of ... could one say of _trepidation_? ... it said all!

In the teeth of the harshness of Tucker's tone and of the minacity of his attitude.

"Are you deaf, **butcher**? I asked you..."

"She is perfectly healed, General."

Phlox amused himself a world, in observing the sudden change in the expression of Tucker. Being interrupted so, in that way, unceremoniously, by him, by Phlox!

The doctor did not give Tucker time to recover. His voice sounded... well, maybe you could not really say _velvety_, though, all things considered, maybe it was, just much as his thick and rough timbre could allow it. And also clearly allusive. And not hiddenly amused, in the bargain.

"And she is perfectly ready."

Phlox saw it clearly. Tucker's eye sparkled.

The doctor piled it on. Something told him that this time he had nothing to fear. Tucker hung on his lips. Literally. And this was priceless.

"For you, General."

Tucker stood for a moment in silence. His eye peered closely at the doctor.

Phlox felt a bead of sweat appear on his forehead. Damn! Had he perhaps exaggerated?

"Very well. Then, I go to her."

No! Everything well! Of everything Tucker could think at that time, except resenting for his attitude, not exactly respectful.

And this fact, this palpable desire on the part of Tucker to reach T'Pol, to go to her... this wish, which... you could perceive, you could see ... was deep, intense ...

Phlox hasn't even been able to realize to find himself saying, in a low voice, not at all harshly "Yes, General. Go."

And this wasn't enough!

"She's waiting for you."

And not even this!

"Eagerly."

Tucker's eye hardened all of a sudden. He turned slightly his head, to better point that eye on the doctor's face. Damn! How it appeared sinister, that face looking sidelong, with that eye so blue and so gloomy. Suddenly so unpleasantly well open and inquiring!

"Eagerly?"

_Oh fuck_! Phlox slapped metaphorically himself. This time he had gone too far.

"Oh ... well..."

"Why should T'Pol wait for me… _eagerly_?"

Now what? Oh shit! And now, what the hell could he say? The doctor could not possibly reveal to Tucker that he was sure that T'Pol was eagerly waiting for him because ... because...

It was not the moment! Of course not! Of what help would this have been for him, Phlox, at that moment? No one! Behold! Tucker was certainly not welcomed by those damned Romulans. He was powerful, among them, this was a fact, but Phlox was more than sure that the Human's life in the midst of those Aliens was played constantly on the cutting edge and, not that he could know a lot, but maybe it could be dangerous to Tucker that the Romulans suspected a link - Romantic? Was it permissible, such an appellation? - between Tucker and T'Pol. In fact it was precisely on this assumption, more than logical in itself, that Phlox had thought and was still thinking to be able to use the knowledge he had of the existence of the Bond between the two of them as a powerful weapon of blackmail against the Human. But first he had to gain more knowledge of facts, places, people. He had to be sure of what he was doing. Revealing that link, that Bond, in such a way, in such a moment, not only it was no use; it could be extremely dangerous, extremely counterproductive. Eh sure. Because it was more than likely that every spot - except very probably, for… obvious reasons, the garden, _that_ garden, and the quarters that looked out on it - and the infirmary a fortiori, were subjected to surveillance. If he had said loud what he knew, it was likely that the Romulans would have known things that maybe it was better they weren't arrived to know, at least in that way and in that moment, without him, Phlox, being able to take advantage of such revelation.

There was to believe that Tucker could have been lost.

And even T'Pol.

And… what was worse, he too! Phlox!

And then... and then...

The mighty regurgitation of a truth that Phlox futilely tried to ignore, submerged his vain elucubrations.

But for the devil of the Humans! Why the hell had he to think that ... that it was not right that it were him to reveal to Tucker the Bond? That ... that had to be him, him Tucker - _him together with T'Pol _- who had to realize its existence?

Damn vulcan female! One more time doubly damned! But what the hell had she done to him?

"Phlox! Lousy quack! The cat got your repugnant tongue? In its whole length? **What do you mean?**"

"General…"

"Don't are you thinking, by chance, of conspiring once again with her? In my exclusive damage, this time? She is…she is _eagerly_ waiting for me, because... _because she thinks she can fool me, once again? Relying once again on your connivance? On your skill of doctor?_"

"What?"

"Here we are not where we were at that time, Phlox! Here I do not need to hide my strength!"

"Gen…"

"Here I do not need to appear what I'm not!"

"But, General!"

"Neither she nor you! None of the two of you would have any hope to overwhelm me! To use me surreptitiously for your purposes!"

"But I don't…"

"Here I won't let myself be put down by you as I let it happen then!"

"Eh? Ah, so it was so!"

"And I won't let myself be fooled by her! Once again!"

Tucker's hand snapped suddenly. It grabbed the doctor by the lapel. He had gotten next to Phlox, was practically on top of him. His face was over his, against his.

And Phlox could see Tucker's eye, _that_ eye, perfectly.

He could see _perfectly_ what was inside.

Anger. Sure. Blind rage.

But…

There was more in that aflame and enraged eye.

Phlox knew how to read people's eyes.

Sadistic, opportunistic and malignant. All true. But as a doctor... one more capable, hard to think there was.

And then… he had seen _it_ so many times, into people's eyes.

He... had always turned eyes and mind somewhere else, when he had seen it. What was the difference between people and the animals that - for studying. Sure. For his studies. - he vivisected? Why… why bother, when he saw _it_, in the eyes of people? When, into them, he could espy _that thing_, that he was inevitably able to recognize very well, as well as all what could unleash it?

The death, inevitable and imminent.

The torture of the spirit and of the flesh.

The fear.

The terror.

And also... the end of hope. The bitterest disappointment.

Like now. In _that_ eye. In that eye wide open, irate and... _desperate_.

Despair!

Here the why.

Wrath. Sure. Wrath. Certainly.

For the fear of the end of hope. A hope maybe not even perceived, yet so present. So puissant.

For the fear of getting deluded. Of having deluded oneself. Maybe without even having understood of deluding oneself.

In that eye, there was all this.

There was... despair.

As in the voice.

"Is it for this, fucked quack?"

A whisper. Raspy. Breathed on the face of the doctor. So low that only he could hear.

A hiss.

Rabid.

_And desperate._

"Is it for this, that she waits for me… _eagerly_?"

_Desperate!_

"**To fool me again**?"

For a moment Phlox stood motionless dazed watching that eye. Its anger.

Its despair.

No wonder T'Pol had been able to pull Tucker back from the death that was grabbing him, even at a distance of countless light years. Behind that Bond, at its base, there was ... could there any doubt now?... there was the craziest, _the most desperate_… of loves.

Desperate!

As desperate it was the universe in which it was born.

But it was love. _Desperate love_. So desperate that it could not even understand to there be, to be what it was.

But it was.

And it...

Phlox did not understand. He could not. It was something that he could not grasp. But it was something bigger than him. _That thing_. That feeling, unknown and powerful. Strong, within him.

…_And it had not to encounter obstacles!_

Neither outside.

_Nor inside_. Inside Tucker's brain, inside his hardened heart, incapable, let even it go, of figuring out, of comprehending; _but not even of realizing what had been born inside it._

Without even wondering why, without even pausing to think about it for a moment, Phlox followed the invincible impulse that had sprung up in him. And to hell with prudence, circumspection, fear. To hell with the idiotic calculations of his petty brain.

To hell with it all! To the stake, into the hellfire! In the dreadful inferno of the Humans!

His hand jerked up abruptly. Forcefully grabbed the hand of Tucker that held him by the lapel. He gripped firmly and strongly its wrist, forcing that hand to open.

He pushed it a little away, while his hard and intense gaze boldly withstood the hard and intense gaze of the eye of Tucker.

He saw that eye widen even more. Saw the surprise appear in it.

He granted Tucker no time. "I believe you when you say that you have simply pretended to get overwhelmed by me at that time, General, but, as you see, maybe you would have had no need to feign."

The doctor released Tucker's wrist and shrank back hastily. He hadn't to give Tucker time to recover, to react. Better not try to verify if really Tucker, that time, had faked or not. No. Better not. He spoke quickly, precipitately. "Now, General, just as I believe you, the same way you must believe me."

His eyes searched for that of the Human, anchored firmly into that blue eye, which was looking at him. Frowning, now. Waiting.

"Neither of us two thinks to fool you, General. Neither I, nor, much less, T'Pol."

The blue eye was staring at his eyes with extreme attention.

"Especially T'Pol."

The eyebrow above the blue eye got up a little.

"She is not eagerly waiting for you to fool you again, General."

The eyebrow stood a little more. The blue of the eye became more intense.

"T'Pol is eagerly waiting for you because..."

Phlox fell silent, suddenly. He could not! There was no fallacy in all he had thought of before. He could not reveal to Tucker, so in that way, preventing him from being him himself to realize it, with the risk, on top of that, that undesirable ears could hear, that T'Pol was eagerly waiting for him because... because a vulcan Bond had got established between him and her!

_That T'Pol was eagerly waiting for him because she loved him!_

And yet he had to make him understand. In some way. Not directly. Not openly. But he had to make him understand. Or at least had to put him on the road. He had to make disappear that desperation, which dazzled Tucker's brain, which forbade him to understand what had been born within him, as well as within T'Pol.

He had to make it clear to him that the time of the deceptions had passed, for T'Pol, and also of the _self-_deceptions. As well as it had passed for him, for Tucker.

But, in doing that, he had to also make sure that it was him - him Tucker - to arrive to realize, by his own strengths. His mind had to open up by itself, without revelations, falls from height, that wouldn't have done anything else but fuel the distrust and suspicion. You could not change the Modus Vivendi of an entire existence, distrustful and suspicious; of the Universe in which Tucker had been born and had lived and was living and thinking and acting, with a simple: _Tucker, T'Pol loves you and you love her_.

And then, how would have they sounded on his mouth, the mouth of the vile and malefic doctor that he, Phlox, was, words of this kind? Without forgetting, in addition to all this, that it still was more than real the risk that such a blatant, ill-timed, inopportune revelation on his part, now, in that way, in that place, at that moment, could have brought someone - in listening - to conclusions and actions… deleterious.

And yet Phlox had to make it that a light were turned on, in Tucker.

The doctor did not know if T'Pol, in turn, were really ready for this amazing truth, even if the logical ability, of which she was capable, gave him hope that it were so. T'Pol was able to face the truth, perhaps, more readily than Tucker. Perhaps, though. Just perhaps. The Vulcans, by their own nature and culture and conviction, were in the habit to bow to logic of events and for this Phlox thought that T'Pol would have not only understood, but also accepted. But it was also possible that she were unable to bend to a logic that contrasted with each her own logic.

The Humans, however...

The Humans, unlike the Vulcans were not looking for explanations in the logic, didn't slavishly bow to it, and didn't unnecessarily and vainly martyrize themselves if the logic of things was in contrast with what they believed and wanted. The Humans did not bend to logic of events. They bent events to their logic. This was their strength and this - it was damn clear by now - was the strength of Tucker, in him more powerful than ever. And precisely on this strength, the strength of Tucker, Phlox believed that it could be possible to count, if T'Pol had not been able to understand and accept, in spite of all her logic.

The strength of Tucker would have been able to open eyes and mind to her, if need be.

And, in any case, even if she had understood and accepted, what would it be served if he, in turn, had not understood and accepted? Not to mention the fact that, Phlox knew it, T'Pol was strong and determined, but also doubtful, so much to become sometimes even uncertain, to end up drawing back, if she was not able to fully tackle the force of things. It was her damn logic, capable of leading her to question everything that was not part of the patterns of logic. It wasn't hard for Phlox to imagine that at the slightest doubt, at the least disturbance, she might have give in to the doubt, to the fear, too, exactly so, despite having initially understood and accepted.

Tucker, no. He, no. The moment he had understood and accepted... since that time, Phlox was certain, nothing and no one would have stopped him anymore.

And he would be able to drag T'Pol with him. By means of his strength. As, in hindsight, he had already done.

So the crux was him. Tucker. He was the engine. The prime mover. He was the one who, without even being able to imagine, had been able to make be born again in T'Pol the ancient force.

_To make be born, in her, the love._

By him and for him, it was all started.

So, only he could make sure that the miracle - Yeah. The... miracle - could be performed until the bottom.

That it could be accomplished such a sea change.

Because... yes... that's what it was. A sea change.

A return to the past.

To what was narrated that had been and that no longer was.

Eh sure. Because, it was said, there had been a time... distant, far away... where there was no despair, in the Universe. There was love.

Then, struggle, envy, greed, hatred... they had made their way. Love had vanished. It had appeared the despair.

And so it had been born this Universe of despair.

A _desperate_ universe in which there had lastly been the coming… _of them_.

Them.

The Humans.

Who had been able to reap the rewards sown everywhere by the despair.

The Humans. Incarnation of the nemesis that had beaten down on people and on populations, turned nasty and corrupt.

Phlox had always laughed at these beliefs, these legends. The Universe was what it was, evil, corrupt and _desperate_, and he stood well, in that Universe. He felt at ease.

The utopias of youth were gone. He had made for himself his own nook. Warm and comfortable. Risky, though. Oh yes. Damn risky, as the recent events proved incontrovertibly.

It was damn risky to live in that desperate Universe.

So then... maybe ... who knows ... maybe he, and not only he, could also feel more at ease, _better_, in a different universe, a universe not desperate. A Universe of love. Or at least in a universe where there was the impetus to love, to its search. Like... like it seemed it was in that other universe, the one from which it came the Defiant.

And now it seemed... it seemed that such a change were possible.

In the Universe it had reappeared love. So distorted, so masked, so daubed with desperation, that, for it, it was hard even recognizing itself.

But it had reappeared.

And in a Human. In one of the Lords of Despair. And so strong as to drag along with him not another of his own race, but even a vulcan female, epigone, continuator, of what had once been the noblest of races, if it was true what the stories have told about the disappeared era of love, the era of the Warrior Princesses of Vulcan and of their Champions, their chosen ones, who lived and fought and died, but won, also, in the name of love.

It couldn't... it couldn't be allowed such an occasion to be lost!

It was necessary that Tucker could understand. It was necessary preventing the light of hope from turning off in him and allowing that its mighty glare could disperse the darkness of despair.

"If the cat hasn't had an indigestion because of the enormity of your tongue, I might ask him to eat the rest of you."

Phlox flinched. He returned to the world of the living. The blue eye was looking at him with annoyance and impatience. Even the other eye, the one disfigured, was looking at him now. It was... disquieting. But not as much as the voice. "The universe might grant me a very big reward for such a release. _Dear_ doctor."

The doctor watched very well Tucker, albeit with circumspection.

The Human had gone back a little. He was standing erect, his nervous arms placidly abandoned along his sides.

It was true. There, where they were now, Tucker looked different from how he was, no, _seemed _to be before. Here and now, he really did not need to hide his strength, to appear what he was not.

Phlox had perceived this strength at other times in the past, but it was now stronger than ever. It was as if - despite the undoubted hazards of his life even, and, perhaps, especially here compared to the past - he had got rid of the whole frame he had built around himself and which had done so that only once in a while you could glimpse through it how and what he really was.

Now the frame had no longer need to be, there was no longer, and Tucker appeared for what he was for real.

There was as an aura of repressed, mighty energy, ready to break free, around him.

He appeared proud, self-confident. Glowering at the right point

He appeared master of himself, lord of his destiny.

_Master. Lord_.

Yeah. Master. And lord.

Master and lord.

_Master and lord… _

The broadest of the broadest of the broadest smiles did spread across Phlox's face.

When you have a brainwave, you realize it immediately.

* * *

T'Pol would never have believed that it could exist a place of such sort.

It was said that, on Earth, the Emperor's gardens were a place of incomparable beauty, and maybe it was true, but she could never have known if this were really true or not. The residence of the Emperor was something beyond her reach.

But, in any case, this garden, the one in which she was now...

The beauty, therefore, really existed, in the Universe.

It was not a legend.

It existed, just as it existed...

This, too, therefore, was not a legend?

Was it true?

The Bond?

The Vulcan Bond?

And she, just she, had been able to revive it?

Inside her?

Between her and... and...

T'Pol continued to go forward slowly into the garden, into the woods, between the trees. In the sweetness of the incipient evening. Among the scents of flowers and greenery.

She did not feel cold, despite her nakedness.

It was warm, perfect for her.

It seemed... it seemed designed specifically for... a vulcan slave-girl.

Exactly what was her.

The slave-girl… _possibly_ the slave-girl, after... after the test… of the man who... _who was also her Adun._

There was silence around her. Only the quiet rustling of the leaves, softly rocked by a slight and gentle breeze. And warm. And fragrant.

There was none.

Only her.

With her thoughts.

But how could that be possible?

She?

Just she?

A... a vile and faithless deceiver, as it was her?

And with a Human. _A Human_. He, too, a vile and faithless deceiver like her. No. Worst. A traitor. Of his own race.

Yet she felt - and knew - that it was true. Really, between him and her there was a Bond.

It had been said to her by that woman in the mirror, had been revealed to her by that other herself, the herself, deep and true and sincere, who knew the truth and who had forced her to quit, finally, lying to herself.

It was stated, clearly, patently, without any possibility of denials, by that murmur inside her.

Now she understood.

Was aware.

_That murmur was him!_

And that murmur, now, sang inside her; at the thought that she could again be his.

She...

_She was bonded to him._

But it did not make sense!

It was illogical!

The Bond... the Bond was a noble thing! High! Lofty!

It was an expression of... of... of...

**Of Ashaya!**

What Humans - **He!** He, too, in spite of all his biting sarcasm! - would have called… would have called… love!

Ultimately... ultimately... she... she was in love with him!

She was bound to him by the bond of love!

Of Ashaya!

One thing that had existed in another era. An era of legends. The legendary era of the Warrior Princesses. The era when it was said that the noble things had existed.

And Ashaya was the most noble of things!

And she... she was... ignoble!

Like him!

So then, how could it be possible that inside her, through her, from her, such a noble thing had been able to be born again?

A noble bond of love between two ignoble beings!

And then, why now yes, and before not?

Before. When she had ignominiously fooled him.

Why, before, hadn't she heard, _hadn't felt_, that... chant of love, inside her?

What had changed? What had happened?

What...

*_Oh_ *

T'Pol stopped abruptly.

She looked up, as to look for confirmation to her sudden insight, at the sky that could be seen among the foliage of the trees. The sky, serene and softly darkened, bit by bit, by the colours of a sweet and quiet evening.

A sky, an evening full… of love.

_What had changed? What had happened?_

She... she knew!

**Nothing** had changed!

Nothing, in reality. She had chosen him from the outset. Therefore ... therefore, she had fallen in love with him... from the outset.

Therefore, really nothing had changed. Absolutely nothing!

But she could not understand it, before. She wasn't able_. Couldn't realize that... that feeling inside her._

_She couldn't comprehend she was in love with him!_

Now, yes. Now she could. Now… the time of deceptions and self-deceptions was over.

And the reason was that it had happened something capable of making her understand.

_Nothing had changed, but "something" had happened._ Something… horrible; but also important. Extremely important.

Basic. Fundamental. Essential.

For her and for her life. For the woman that she had finally figured out to be. A woman in love.

Something that had been able to lacerate the leaden veil which prevented her from understanding.

Why now yes, and before not?

But because before, it was before. It was not now.

_Before it was before the cage of horror in which she had been locked up!_

_Before it was before her desperate need for him!_

It was before that he had rushed to her rescue, at her call.

At her unconscious appeal!

That cage... that cage of horror had brought in full light everything!

It had made impossible any deception.

And any _self-_deception.

He was her Champion!

And she had chosen him and had fallen in love with him, because she, her Katra, knew that he was her Champion.

And that he... he loved her!

**But she was ignoble!**

**Like him!**

Or... or maybe...

T'Pol lowered her gaze.

In her soul, in her Katra, an awareness, a _consoling_ awareness, gained ground. And warmed her whole being.

It was not ignoble, her purpose.

It was not ignoble, her dream of freedom!

Infamous it was the way, the means she had used.

But the purpose was **not** ignoble.

And she... she did not ... she did not know to use other ways, other means.

No one had taught her how to act in a not ignoble manner.

But... but maybe her katra knew that her purpose was not ignoble, indeed, was… was _noble_, and, perhaps, she could be forgiven if had thought that the end could justify the means.

The Humans! Just the Humans, had taught this to her!

Perhaps her katra knew that she was not... could be not as ignoble as her way of acting could make believe!

Maybe there was hope for her!

And, for this reason, she... yes, it was irrational, it was illogical such an idea... but... but... maybe it was for this that... that she had been granted to... to...

**But him not!**

He was a Human! Vile! And arrogant! Perverse! He was one of those who had brought the despair in the Universe!

He was one of those who had taught to her race, to her, to behave… ignobly!

And he was even worse!

He was an abject traitor of his species!

He was... he was ignoble without the possibility of redemption!

He was without hope!

How was it possible that she, that her katra...

T'Pol stepped forward again, without realizing it. Uncertain. Confused.

Without noticing, she came to the end of the path between the trees.

In front of her, the forest opened up. The shadow of the grove gave way to light.

The light of a clearing.

_Light._

In front of her.

And, slowly, laboriously, even inside her.

She stopped again, forcefully endeavouring to capture that tenuous light in her mind.

A shred... another shred of memory...

Incomplete... imprecise...

It was something that she... she... she had caught from Tucker.

That she had seen… inside him!

And it was also something she had said without having real consciousness of what she was saying.

In her… in her delirium!

Yes! She remembered that she had been delirious.

And she remembered...

Her struggling!

With him!

Along with him!

And she remembered... _now she remembered_... what she had said, in her raving.

Her words.

Addressed to him.

Words that spoke of a war he was fighting. A war... dark and secret.

A war that from that point on, he would no longer have had to fight alone, because she would have fought together with Him. At his side.

_Insane words! Words of a woman in delirious!_

Certainly! Of course!

What else, otherwise?

T'Pol looked ahead, into the light of the clearing, as if wanting to seek into that light an answer to her doubts, her uncertainties.

Her fears.

And in that light, spreading out in front of her, she seemed to see again the mirror, and, in the mirror, that woman.

Her. Herself.

Nude.

As the truth.

_The time of lies and self-deceptions was over._

_*The truth.*_

She had been inside him.

And she knew!

That war, dark and secret, existed.

She did not remember - maybe she hadn't ever even known - which war it were. What it were. Not surely the one he was fighting against his own breed, at the side - how, why, by following what roads, she did not know - of those Romulans.

It was another war.

Darker. Obscurer.

More secret.

A war of which she had just been able to grasp the existence, but not the essence.

But that war - hard, exhausting, never-ending - that he was fighting ... darkly, secretly...

Alone.

That war that she wanted to fight at his side... in which she would never again have left him alone...

Maybe it was not a war... ignoble.

Could it be… could it be that his purpose, the purpose of that war, dark and secret, were not ignoble? As well as _her own _purpose? Could it be that he, like her, did not know how to, maybe even couldn't, use not ignoble means to achieve a _noble_ goal?

Perhaps her Katra had seen, had caught in him something more than… than what could be seen externally.

Something…

The existence of a... of a nobility - dark, deep, secret - that she could not grasp by watching what, of him, he allowed to be seen.

But that existed.

And if she could not understand it, could not catch it, her katra, yes. It could.

And her katra had done it!

And so, she had fallen in love with him!

And she had tied him to her with the Bond.

And that meant... that meant that he too loved her!

It was true what she had thought of before. It was true that he harboured for her a feeling.

But it was not true, was _not at all_ true, that this feeling on his part was not reciprocated by her.

She loved him.

And this... this was…

T'Pol was the daughter of this Universe, not of the other, that of the other T'Pol, of whom she had been able to seize only a faint hint, and nothing more. So she could not, was not able to give a name to what she felt inside her.

The other T'Pol would have had no hesitation. With the iron logic that was patrimony of both, she would have said… **wonderful!**

But T'Pol, _this_ T'Pol, had ever been able to not even imagine, such a feeling.

However, this was what she felt. A feeling wonderful! And although she was not able to give a name to that feeling, it still was and remained that.

**Wonderful!**

It was… it was… ineffable.

She had not ever felt it before.

She had never heard of anyone, in this world of suffering and insane struggle, who had tried to describe something similar to what she felt.

So, she could not know what it was, what it meant.

_How would she have been able to understand what was… happiness?_

All she could think was that it was… was…

She did not know. But over time she would have learned. She would have learned that its appellation was _wonderful_.

It seemed to her to be reborn. No, to be born for real. For the first time.

There was a new life ahead of her. More. There was _the_ life.

Oh yes, of course, he, her… her Adun, could not know all this, he probably would not have understood or wanted to understand if she had tried to explain it to him.

But what did it matter?

What did it matter that she should have been his slave to be with him, to be able to love him?

She was already his slave.

_His love slave._

The Bond brooked no middle ways.

When a vulcan female gives herself, she gives herself in no uncertain terms. With all of herself. And when it happens that the union gets consecrated by the Bond - if what was narrated about the Bond was true... and this was true, as it was true what T'Pol felt within herself... as it was true that Bond, between her and her Chosen One, now that she had finally figured out how it was useless, stupid, futilely self-injurious, illogical to refuse to recognize the truth… - well then that vulcan female is and will always be of her Chosen One.

_In her body. Her mind. Her spirit. Her soul. Her heart. Her…Katra._

Forever. Indissolubly.

In a consecration far stronger, far more profound than that which, soon, maybe... no, surely... would consecrated her as the slave girl of her sole Lord and Master.

Because he was far more than her Lord and Master. He was her Champion, her Chosen One.

Her beloved Adun.

Because she was in love with him!

And this was... this was...

No. T'Pol was incapable of describing what it was, what she was feeling.

It was... it was impossible!

It was like... it was like...

Like walking in the air!

Into the light!

In a gentle and soft light, suffused with sweetness. In a fresh and thin air, permeated with Ashaya.

And, all of a sudden, T'Pol realized that it was just so.

She was walking.

Without thinking of it, she had started again to walk slowly, her eyes open, but blind to the world and immersed in that dream of happiness.

And a fresh and thin air was stroking her body.

She halted, as she started again to watch for real the world.

A soft and gentle light caressed her eyes, now actually open on the garden surrounding her.

She was no longer in the woods, she was in the glade.

In the fresh, thin air, that wafted in it.

In the vespertine, soft and gentle light, that enlightened it.

* * *

"A magnificent smile, my dear doctor. Very nice. Really.

Tucker moved a little closer to Phlox, while intertwining his hands behind his back, with a nonchalant air and indolent.

The blue eye, however, was visibly gloomy. "I can not say, however, that I am particularly fascinated by your smile."

Phlox abruptly became serious again. "General..."

The blue eye was getting pretty damn dusky. "Yes, Doctor?"

The physician started to get huffy. Just like that. Now enough! What the hell would he have done without him, that irritating Human? How the hell would he have done to have back - intact and healthy and _ready_ - his beloved T'Pol?

Yeah. His beloved T'Pol. Phlox took a deep breath. That was the point. His beloved T'Pol.

But Tucker did not know she was his beloved. Eh sure. It was something too _mad _for him to be admitted, or only even to be conceived. And, on the other hand, for him, it was too damn _mad_ even just palely to conceive that T'Pol was eagerly waiting because _he_ was her beloved in turn.

His whole conduct showed his inability to understand.

But also, at the same time, his unspeakable desire it to be so.

It was important, however, basic, that Tucker were able to understand; that, at least, he were able to suspect. Without anyone else being led to suspect.

And the means - tortuous, but, realistically, effective - existed.

Phlox was suave. And very persuasive. "General, do not you think that, for a vulcan female, so proud in addition as T'Pol; a vulcan female destined to be a miserable slave girl; condemned to be subdued to the orders, the desires, the cravings, of every Romulan warlord… do not you think that, for such vulcan female, being eagerly waiting to become the slave girl of exclusive property of the one whose protection will make more acceptable her condition, of the one who will be the only one who can possess her, who can dispose of her, may be wholly understandable? Quite logical, T'Pol would say."

Well, a little bit of satisfaction was certainly welcome. How nice to see how much this time the great, dreadful General Tucker had really been taken off guard! Even the position of his arms, suddenly dropped along his sides, appeared eloquent.

He recovered quickly, though. The game was far from over; indeed it was just at the beginning.

The blue eye twinkled. The arms have been crossed over the chest. "For the devil, bonesetter! Looks like you've learned a lot of things about the customs and traditions of our dear friends Romulans."

"Well, General, one has to live, and, to live, one has to know."

"Yep. And you're a champion, in remaining alive."

"Thanks to you, General, thanks to you."

"Mh. Okay. But why even T'Pol..."

"Should know what I know?"

"Yeah, sawbones. Why?"

"Oh, but, General, when I say that she is ready for you, I mean to say that she is _really_ ready. It is unthinkable that the two bondwomen who, thanks to your benevolence - I'm sure - have taken care of her, have not prepared her… in every aspect."

Tucker nodded haughtily and patronizingly. Well! He had to strike an attitude a little more... dignified, after all! Visibly. "Yeah. Right."

"She is ready, General, and is eagerly waiting for you to be subjected by you, if you want it, to the test that, if she will be able to overcome it, will make her your exclusive and personal slave-girl and that will put her in your sole possession and under your protection."

Tucker nodded again. Looking attentively, not so snooty, this time. "Yeah. Sure. It is so."

And, leaving even aside the fading of that aggressive and contemptuous air, wasn't it, by chance, that there had been a slight hesitation in his response? And wasn't there, perchance, something as of disappointment in the blue of that eye? In its abrupt and swift looking downward, as if wanting to conceal itself?

Okay. It was the moment. "Certainly, General, she knows she can count on your leniency, which makes her even more eager to face the ordeal to which you will subject her. Always provided that you will want it, of course. Always provided that you will find the manner and the appearance with which she will present herself to you satisfactory to you."

The blue eye stood up abruptly. "My leniency? What do you mean, two-penny barber-surgeon? "

"Well, General. She knows that you saved her. It is therefore legitimate for her to think that you might cherish for her..."

"A shit about anything! Stupid medicaster. A nice shit about anything! No! Actually, no! A fucking desire for revenge! Yes, this yes!"

"Sure, sure, General. But it certainly is not for mere desire for revenge that you risked your life to save her. You are not so..."

"Stupid? Mind you, tinpot quack!"

Tucker's hand snapped, pointing threateningly to the doctor, while his blue eye sparked up dangerously.

Oh oh. Error! Error! Error! "But no, no, General! I just wanted to..."

"If I have saved her, I had my good reasons! She... she is of use to me! For this I have saved her. For this I wanted you to cure her. For this, when she woke up in this infirmary..."

Mh. Very significant, that abrupt stop in speaking, on the part of Tucker. And even that sudden change in his gaze.

It seemed... well, here, yes ... it seemed amazed, now, that eye. As if in it there was the reflection of an unexpected thought. Of an idea, a perception… stunning.

_*Okay, damn General. Here we go, then? It's getting a little light in that your stubborn brain?*_

Phlox decided that it was so. So then... strike while the iron is hot!

"For this you have shown your benevolence to her, on that occasion, General? Your concern for her? Your solicitude? One could say your care? This is what you wanted to say?"

Hit the mark! The blue eye was almost goggling. Even the other, the disfigured, seemed to endeavour to open up, and if his mouth was clenched, it was most likely because Tucker preferred not to run the risk of emitting some inarticulate sound.

Keep it up! The iron was hotter than ever!

"Oh well, General. You know, it is undeniable that I had some problems in focusing my attention in those moments, but it was very clear, your attitude, definitely evident. Undoubtedly, as you say, you couldn't not have good reason to behave like that. If, as you say, T'Pol has to be of some use to you ..."

"Sure... it was... it was for this. Sure."

"Oh, I do not doubt it. But you know..." - Come_ on! Some small stroke yet!_ - "... Even T'Pol must have noticed this your kindness towards her. Who knows? May it have been why she, in turn, proved to be caring towards you?"

"She...?"

"But of course! It has been obvious!"

"Well. Actually..."

_Perfect! And now ..._ - "Hard to think that she has behaved so for reasons other than those of earning opportunistically your protection."

"Huh... Yeah."

_The jab!_ - "Sure, a nice strength of mind, our T'Pol."

"What?"

"But yeah. A woman who has just woken up from a coma following a physical and psychic experience capable of destroying whomever, and already able at that moment to think so lucidly for her own personal benefit… She is a Vulcan, okay. But..."

"Yeah. Incredible, actually."

_Now!_ - "One..." - Phlox's look seemed to be that of a mischievous devil and tempter – "...one might even be pushed to think that T'Pol has behaved so for… different reasons. Even… emotional."

A suave smile appeared on Phlox's face. "Really silly, an idea of this sort, is not it?"

"Silly? Oh yes. Sure. Very... very silly."

Ah, finally! The question, in that eye! No. More. Something more. Perhaps… the hope. The conscious hope. The _astonished_ hope.

*_Let's see._* "By the way, General. Harrad-Sar..."

Ha... Harrad-Sar?

"Yes. It does not take long for his recovery. I mean, before long, you can interrogate him."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yes. Let's say... between twenty four hours. Yes. I think it is an appropriate prevision."

"Twenty-four hours?"

"Yes. Is it too much, General?"

"No! I mean... it would be better if it were less, but... that's okay."

"Perfect. Sure, I understand that waiting twenty four hours can really be too much, but I do not doubt that you will know how to occupy your time."

Difficult to think of a blue bluer than the blue of that eye, now.

"Well, actually... I..."

Suddenly Tucker shook himself. The blue eye sparkled with cheerfulness. Aware. Phlox had no doubts. Tucker had understood perfectly his ironic allusion, but, evidently, he didn't find anything bad in that.

And there was to think that he had understood much more.

If not, why that blue eye sparkled in that way, now?

The Human straightened his shoulders, flaunting dignity. "Okay. So, I can actually go to T'Pol."

"You can, General."

"Then, I'll go."

"Go, General. She is waiting for you."

"Eagerly."

"Eagerly."

"E... eagerly."

"Yes. Eagerly."

Tucker stood still for a moment, then, suddenly, he turned and quickly walked to the door

When he was about to go out, Phlox could not contain himself. "General?"

Tucker stopped abruptly. No one could deny that on his face, when he turned to the doctor, there was annoyance. What the hell there was yet?

"What do you want?"

"Oh, forgive my boldness, General, but... you know... after all, I am a doctor and therefore... I'm curious. Professionally, I mean."

Tucker looked at Phlox with suspicion. "Shoot it out, bone saw."

"General... are there hopes that, if you will be so magnanimous to grant her the privilege to face the test, T'Pol may be able to overcome it?"

Tucker remained silent, while the blue eye seemed to look for a proper expression.

Then, that eye appeared as getting illuminated from within, and, imperceptibly, and it wasn't just an impression, the corners of Tucker's lips curled upwards in a thin smile, and definitely anything but scornful or sardonic. No. Not at all.

The Human said nothing.

He turned away without answering and, in a moment, was out of the infirmary.

Phlox remained standing for a while looking at the door.

Then…

Damn! Damn! DAMMIT!

He sat down heavily.

Okay. Now he was ready. To end up in that damned _schmaltzy_ universe from which it came the Defiant.

It was necessary to do something. Okay a little change, maybe even not too much little. Okay. But up to this point!

Yes, it was necessary for him to do something, something... suitable to him, to the old himself.

At that rate, in that goddamn Universe that, after all, was _**his**_ Universe, he would have ended up as lamb meat for hungry wolves.

Ah, if he had been able to cultivate yet a little his pleasant practices of vivisection on animals! That, yes, had been life! Those, yes, had been good times!

Yeah. They had been. And were not anymore.

And then... and then...

Oh, damn it! Frankly - it was hard to admit it - but those practices were not the most! Yes, for The Great Healer's sake! They... they were no longer...

They were no longer liked by him!

Oh well. On the other hand... well... on the other hand, it was understandable, after all. Times change, and also the tastes and inclinations. Actually, it could there be anything better. Sure.

That Romulan guard, for example… that guard appointed to speak with him, that stupid Romulan guard...

Well, sure not now, but maybe one day...

Who knows if it would have been possible to find a brain, in the cranium of that guard?

* * *

Aseptic control rooms... cold starship cabins ... the cold vacuum of space... the silent explosions of the photos torpedoes in the void between the worlds... the dusts of debris and the toxic clouds of the military campaigns...

This had been her life.

Beauty, sweetness, were empty words for T'Pol.

Oh yes. She remembered the wild beauty of Vulcan.

She remembered that beauty.

But it was not part of her life.

It was, for her, a yearning... unwelcome.

She could not enjoy that rugged beauty.

No Vulcan could enjoy it.

And, perhaps, that beauty, it was not even real. Did not exist.

It was rough and tough and harsh.

As her life.

So far.

But there, where she was, where she was at that moment, she could understand what beauty was.

It was a dream, and, as in a dream, T'Pol gazed in astonishment what she saw.

Thither. Not far away. A clear pond.

Delicate water lilies, floating on its surface.

A little further on, a soft little waterfall that fed the pond, falling sprightly down from a hillock.

A quiet stream, which flowed from the pond.

And green trees and bushes and reeds and greenery, all around.

And a lawn, covered with very green grass, around it.

And stones, pebbles, well-disposed, to reach it, among the grass.

And some rocks, craggy, but not too much, to sit on its shores.

And the light, the soft light of the evening...

The darkness that advanced slowly, without already overpowering the day...

That light which light was no longer...

Which placidly was insinuating itself among the rocks, the trees... which made gleam the surface of the pond with shadowy reverberations...

Which made glitter the little waterfall of myriads of dark, yet vivid, iridescent reflections...

And the murmur, sweet and quiet, of the water...

The only sound that could be heard, along with the rustling of the leaves...

In the last lights of the day that was slowly dying.

In the mild darkness of the night that was slowly advancing.

Slowly, almost reverently, T'Pol began to walk in that dream.

Under her bare feet, the grass rustled festive, at each of her steps.

She reached the bank of the pond.

Standing at its edge, she tilted her head to look at its surface.

Rippled by the soft movement of the water, her image.

Her reflection.

A naked woman.

And marvellously beautiful.

No longer simply sensual and provocative, as before.

In the mirror.

Now that woman - _she_ – looked… magical.

Magical.

Magically attractive.

Magically seductive.

As in a myth.

An ancient myth of magic and seduction. And love.

T'Pol knew. The magic did not exist. It was illogical.

She knew. The myths were myths. Nothing else.

But she was - _she felt_ - magical.

In the shimmering magic of the surface of the pond.

In the magic of that dream. Which was reality.

In the magic of a myth which had become reality.

T'Pol sat on a rock on the shore of the pond.

She leaned languidly - _languidly_ - with her back against the trunk of a tree that was right behind her, which seemed to have been put there on purpose to allow those who had sat there, on the shore of the pond, on that rock, to lean on it.

To stay there, waiting.

In languid expectation of the one to whom that magic, _all that magic_ - **her own magic** - was destined.

And T'Pol knew it was exactly so.

That place - suspended and magical; mythical - was the place of the waiting.

Of her waiting.

The path along which she had walked, among the woods, was made to lead there, in that clearing, in that lawn, to that pond.

To that place.

The place of the waiting.

And the encounter.

Of her waiting.

Of her encounter.

Of love.

With her Lord and Master.

With her Chosen One.

With her Champion.

With her Adun.

T'Pol abandoned herself with her back against the tree behind her.

She closed her eyes.

She savoured the languor of the waiting inside her.

Soon he would have come.

She knew it.

She could feel it.

The murmur, which was placidly and festively singing inside her, was saying this to her.

She sighed.

Without shame.

Voluptuously.

Perhaps it was so, in places like this, that in the quiet moments granted to them, the ancient Warrior Princesses of the myth abandoned themselves, while waiting for their Champions, savouring the languid expectation of the arms that would have encircled them, of the love that would have overwhelmed them.

Perhaps it was so that they rejoiced, in waiting to donate to their Chosen Ones the rest and peace, the relief, they deserved and wanted, in the midst of the whirlwind of the struggles and battles.

Perhaps it was so, that they used staying in trepid expectation of them, to take from them and give them love.

Just like soon _she_ would have done.

With her Ashayam.

* * *

_**End of Chapter Nineteen**_

_**TBC**_

OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

_Yes. Hopes and expectations can exist also in an universe of despair._

_But can they be met?_


	20. Chapter 20 The Ice and The Fire

**The Empire's Destiny**

**By Asso.**

**Chapter Twenty**

_**The Ice and The Fire**_

* * *

_The ice and the fire._

_The frost and the flame._

_In their fight against one another, who will win?_

_Anyone who wants to, who can make flare up the flame?_

_Will anyone be capable of helping the fire to melt the ice?_

_To defeat the frost?_

* * *

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

"Milady..."

"Milady? Do I look so old, Delight? Or important? I am T'Pau. Please call me so. I'm not so old compared to you and certainly not more important. We... we're in the same boat, Delight, to put it as would our... owner."

Delight gulped blatantly. Yeah. In the same boat. That would bring them where? "T... T'Pau..."

"Yes, Delight?"

The Orion girl shifted uncomfortably under the blanket that covered her in the guise of cloak. "T'Pau... what expect us?"

T'Pau curled up under her own blanket, on the bed where they sat, side by side. She drew to her, without thinking about it too much, her companion of adventure and misfortune. The girl snuggled against her.

"I do not know, Delight. Our destiny no longer belongs to us, if... if it has ever been true that it were in our hands."

Delight swallowed again. T'Pau felt her body tremble against her.

"We are... we are in the hands of..." The girl's voice dropped to a whisper. "…_of that man_."

T'Pau didn't struggle to appear unmoved. Indeed she gave up a priori. What sense could there be in endeavouring to look so? There, at those moments? In the… common boat where they, she and Delight, stood?

Even her voice was a whisper. "It's so, Delight."

"He does not... he does not seem so bad."

"You know who he is, Delight." T'Pau heard a strange note sounding in her voice. Uncommon. Definitely unusual. Was it… fear? Cloaked in uncertainty? Concealed deep down it?

"Yes!" It was almost a shriek. Then Delight recovered. Again a whisper. A little tremulous. "Yes, I know. But..."

"But..." T'Pau lowered her tone even more, if possible. A little because she did not want to be heard by ears that were not those of Delight, which was perfectly possible. A little because… No. Not a little. Above all. How was it possible not to tell if not in a very low voice what her katra suggested to her? "But you do not think that he is the monster that you thought he was."

Delight leaned her head on the shoulder of T'Pau. She would never have believed that one day she would seek safety and solace in a Vulcan, but certainly much less she would have believed that a Vulcan had consented to give it to her.

But life is strange. It is unpredictable. It is full of unforeseeable things and events. Unthinkable.

Like a Human in fight against his own Empire. A Human... terrifying and... and yet… and yet seemingly, much as unbelievable it could be appear... … unthinkably, precisely… also… _pitiful_.

And alive and vital when he should have been dead. And not just once, but twice!

_That_ Human.

**Just that Human!**

Delight's voice sounded in the ear of T'Pau so low that not even the most sophisticated of devices would have been able to pick it up.

"He will protect us. Right, T'Pau? We won't die. We won't... we won't suffer. Won't live in pain. And... in the humiliation." She raised her head. She sought the eyes of her companion. "I... we have not deceived ourselves. Right, T'Pau? We have not misinterpreted his words. His way of behaving."

T'Pau returned Delight's gaze. She knew that in her own eyes it could be seen some sort of amazement. And with good reason. It was really hard, now that the two of them were alone, that... that the obscure enchantment - because illogically in defiance of all logic, thus it appeared - that that man seemed to radiate around him… oh, now it was really difficult to think that they truly hadn't deceived themselves, that it could really be true what they thought they had glimpsed in the words and gestures of Tucker.

"He saved us, Delight. And he has taken us away from the fate we would have had if we had been left to the dominion of these..." - T'Pau couldn't prevent her voice from trembling a little. – "…of these Romulans." - _Who were they? __**What**__ were they? Why did they look so much like the Vulcans? __**Like her**__?_ – "And he..." - A heat inside her. A relief, full of apprehension, of course, but still a relief. A _big_ relief. – "And he has also succeeded in preventing these Romulan from being the ones who should interrogate Harrad-Sar, who should… take care of him. He has been able to make it that this task were up to him."

Delight straightened up a little bit on the bed. She looked intently at T'Pau. "How is it possible, T'Pau? He... he is the dark necromancer of the human Starfleet. The nightmare of every starship in battle against the Empire of Men. And... and he is dead! Instead...

"Instead he's here, Delight. Yes, I know. It's amazing, but true."

"He is here and..."

"And he's in cahoots with a breed that fights against his own Empire. A breed, never seen in person, which is spoken with awe and which...

The voice of T'Pau trailed off. Delight gave form to what she had not been capable of expressing. "And which is so similar to yours."

T'Pau lowered her eyes. "Yes, Delight. To the point to be even confused with mine. That perhaps, between it and mine, there might be some unknown..."

Her voice betrayed her again. And once again Delight completed the unexpressed of her thoughts. "Some unknown connection."

T'Pau raised her head again. Difficult to express what her eyes showed. Wonder? Fear? Possibly even... shame? "It may be, Delight."

Delight clung to T'Pau, who did not refuse the embrace.

The young girl didn't raise her head from the neck of T'Pau as her voice rose faint.

"What's going on, T'Pau? The Universe collapsed on us, but we have been saved and we were brought here, in the domain of a mighty race, unknown and feared, that perhaps has... has something to do with your own race, by a man, a Human, who is the very symbol of the Human Empire and who is fighting against this Empire together with this breed and who... who should be dead!

"And who has protected us, Delight. Do not forget that."

"But... but how is that possible?"

Almost without realizing it, T'Pau clung in her turn against Delight. "I have no answers, Delight. But one thing, I get it."

Delight once again raised her head to look straight into the eyes of T'Pau. "What, T'Pau?"

T'Pau reciprocated Delight's gaze. Her voice was so feeble as to be barely heard. "He is the loneliest man who can exist."

Delight did not speak. She waited intensely what T'Pau had clearly yet to say.

T'Pau sighed. Visibly. "There is in him something unknown and awful. He is fighting, Delight. Alone. A dark... and unknown… bloody war. Completely alone."

Delight continued to remain silent. Her gaze didn't detach from that of T'Pau.

"I do not deceive myself, Delight. I feel it's so. Inside him there is the most desperate of loneliness. There's… there's a chill which freezes."

Delight didn't say a single word yet. She kept staring into T'Pau's eyes. Almost with effort, laboriously, the Vulcan spoke again. "And yet... "

She stopped, in search for words.

This time Delight didn't stand silent. "Yet there is heat, too."

T'Pau stood surprised. She looked motionless at Delight for some instants. Then nodded thoughtfully. She wouldn't ever be capable of finding an expression such as that of Delight, but it was exactly so. "Yes, Delight. In the midst of all that frost, there's in him… something that warms."

"Yes, T'Pau. Me too, I have perceived it."

"Did you?"

"I did." Delight struggled to find the right words. "A spark of heat. Intense. Struggling… struggling to stay alive."

T'Pau stared at Delight more and more surprised. Frankly amazed, in reality. Almost reverently she nodded again. Her words adapted themselves, practically by their own will, to the manner of expressing of Delight. "A heat in search of help."

"Of something..."

"Of someone..."

"Able to keep it alive."

"To prevent it from petering out."

"To help it to disperse the frost..."

"Of all that loneliness."

There was silence for some time, while the two women stood looking at each other and at their thoughts which flowed between them. Then Delight broke the silence. "Evidently it is really true that the Vulcans are a race extremely perceptive."

T'Pau was caught off guard by that unexpected statement. "What do you mean, Delight?"

The girl appeared as collecting her thoughts. "It has been speculated so much about who might have snatched from her fate that woman, that vulcan female."

"You mean T'Pol."

"Yes, T'Pau. T'Pol. The one whom the whole Universe has seen fight like a warrior princess of the myths of your race."

"You... you know many things, Delight."

"Yes, I know many things. And I know, like everyone else, that she, T'Pol, has given him herself. To our actual owner. Tucker."

"A vulcan woman does not..."

"It does not matter if a vulcan female wouldn't ever express so herself. The substance does not change. She has given him herself."

T'Pau wasn't able to reply. She stood for a moment speechless. Then nodded once again. She could not deny what was more than well known. "Yes, Delight. She has given him herself."

"She has felt that warmth, T'Pau. And she has wanted to make herself be heated from that heat."

"I do not think... I do not think..."

"What, you do not think, T'Pau? That a vulcan female can not want a little heat to warm her heart? Maybe without even understanding it? Without realizing it?"

"I..." T'Pau's mind raced, suddenly, to Harrad-Sar. She had felt a warmth, unknown and strange - and sweet - in him. And... and she wanted that heat to warm up her, yet. "Yes, Delight. It is... possible."

"Not possible, T'Pau. It is true. It is so. T'Pol wanted to warm up at that heat. And..."

"And?"

"And he, Tucker, has wished that she could do it again."

"He has wished..."

"He has saved her, T'Pau. It is clear. It is evident."

"Yes, this too is possible."

"Not only it is possible, T'Pau." Delight suddenly smiled. "It is logical."

T'Pau felt that her lips were struggling for smiling in turn. "So she too is here, somewhere, you think. Don't you, Delight?"

"And you too think so, T'Pau."

T'Pau fought hard so as not to really smile. "Yes, I too think so, Delight."

Delight became suddenly and unusually severe. "He wants to warm her yet. And he wants her to invigorate his warmth. He seeks her help. He wants her to help him to disperse all that frost. All that loneliness."

"Delight, the world is not so. It is grim, it is bad. And that man belongs to this world."

"You're right, T'Pau. But he saved her as well as us, even though he belongs to this world. And, it seems, as you yourself say, he wants to protect us. And probably even more he wants to protect... her."

"Yes, it is possible and..."

Delight smiled again. "No, T'Pau. Permit me. Not only it is possible. It is totally logical."

This time T'Pau was not able to avoid it. Imperceptibly, almost impossible to see. But she did it. She smiled. "It is really true. Orions are pirates, but also dreamers."

Delight's smile grew up. "That's right, T'Pau. So much so that just among us, it has found force and impetus the dream of rebellion against the Human Empire."

"A dream that didn't came true, Delight."

"For now, T'Pau."

T'Pau arched her eyebrow. "What do you mean, Delight?"

"Harrad-Sar is still alive."

T'Pau could not help but sigh with clear contentment. "Yes, he is alive."

"And he too has been saved by… our possessor."

"Yes, it is true."

"T'Pau..."

"Delight?"

Delight watched T'Pau with such intensity that the Vulcan found difficult to hold up it. "Which war is our master fighting, T'Pau?"

T'Pau has suddenly gotten extremely serious. _Which war..._ "Speak softly, Delight. Speak softly. Indeed, do not... do not speak at all."

Delight nodded. There was light on her face. Her eyes were sparkling. "Yes, you're right. Better to remain silent."

"Yes. Better, Delight."

There was silence again while the two women were holding to each other and were looking at one another; while their hearts were saying what their mouths couldn't say.

Couldn't _dare_ say.

The silence was broken by the door that opened.

T'Pau and Delight turned towards it.

The two women dressed in practically nothing - the two slaves, evidently, so looking like Vulcans - who had first brought to the Vulcan and the Orion girl the blankets with which they had been able to cover their nakedness and defend themselves against the cold, entered the room.

They advanced toward them as the door closed behind their shoulders.

They stopped in front of the bed on which T'Pau and Delight were sitting.

One of them was holding on her arms what to all intents and purposes appeared to be clothes. The other was carrying a large tray with covered dishes, and glasses and a bottle. And something else. A casing.

This latter spoke. She had a beautiful voice, clear and soft. And very, very controlled.

"We have brought to you what the human warlord, your master by right of war booty, ordered that we should bring to you"

The woman put the tray on the bed, next to T'Pol and Delight, then she took off the lids of the dishes.

A smell of unknown food rose in the room. It was not a bad smell.

T'Pau and Delight looked at the dishes, at the food on them.

It was inviting, like its smell.

The hunger made itself felt.

"Eat. It is good. And it's good for both. There is nothing meat and it is nutritious."

T'Pau and Delight didn't need to be prayed. They ate. Everything. In silence. Quenching their thirst with the drink that was in the bottle and that was sweet and fresh, while the two bondwomen were standing on before them, watching them quietly.

When T'Pau and Delight had finished eating, the woman spoke again.

"Stand up."

T'Pau and Delight obeyed.

"Take off those blankets."

A little hesitant, T'Pau and Delight obeyed again.

The blankets fell to the ground, exposing their naked bodies to the sight.

The slave observed them carefully. She appeared openly examine them, all the small and large bruises of which they were scattered, turning around to the two naked women and, in doing so, she came near to them a lot, very little vulcan-like.

But so then, was she really a Vulcan, as her appearance, that T'Pau and Delight were now handily able to sift, could make one think?

Suddenly she wrinkled her nose, as her eyes clearly assumed an expression of distaste.

She retreated back in great rush.

"It is clear that your bodies have, at present, many needs, in addition to that of being adequately fed, as it has been done; not least the need to be thoroughly cleaned and washed."

Vulcan, decidedly Vulcan. Few doubts about that, and, judging by the expression of the other one, also this one should be Vulcan.

The slave girl pointed to a small door on the bottom of the not large room. "The sanitation services, complete with a shower, are over there."

The two captives looked at each other, suddenly aware of their status. Until that moment the tension, first of all, and then the attention to the two maidservants, and before, the need to eat, had prevented them from noticing it, but now...

Their noses were affected by their not-so-pleasant smell.

They had been treated, this was true, and now, nourished, too.

_But nothing__ more._

With shame, no point in denying it, and even with lot of relief, they hastened to the bathroom door.

They went inside. First T'Pau and, then, after the necessary time, Delight.

When they were both out of the bathroom, together again, their eyes sought one another.

Yes, they were really in the same boat.

A voice shook them. It was the other slave-girl. She too had a low and musical voice and also her voice sounded controlled, even too much. It appeared very clear that one had to be very careful not to step out of line, in those parts. One false move and who knows what end one could do. And a slave, then.

And the two of them... the same thought struck at the same time T'Pau and Delight ... The two of them were spoils of war.

_Slaves._

The bondwoman who had spoken had placed the clothes, which she had brought, on the bed, next to the tray.

"Now it's up to your wounds. General Tucker was very clear."

_General Tucker! Tucker was... was a General among that people!_

The first slave handed to the second the casing that had made show of itself on the tray, next to dishes.

This one opened it and took out two objects that looked like two sponges.

The slave gave the other one of the two sponges and both began to pass them gently on the bruises and abrasions of T'Pau and Delight.

A relief, intense, went through the bodies of the two companions in misfortune.

After a few minutes of intense work the two slaves stopped and stood watching the result. They nodded to one another, clearly satisfied.

"Now, the clothes", said the first.

"Yes", said the second.

Both picked up the garments from the bed and began to cover with them the naked bodies - _and fed, and washed, and cured_ - of T'Pau and Delight.

Eventually the two women were dressed.

They looked at each other, searching into each other how they could look.

Two tiny golden cups to barely cover the breasts, sustained by a burnished chain that went all around the trunk, remaining secured behind the back.

A high belt of golden fabric, resting on the hips, very down, which covered their intimacies, and which was holding a long, flowing skirt, it too gilded, completely open-sided and so transparent as to fully reveal the shapes of their legs.

Golden sandals at the feet.

_And__ nothing__ more._

Two perfect slave-girls.

Like the two who were taking care of them and who were pretty much inserting them into their role.

T'Pau and Delight turned and looked at the two bondwomen.

Two bondwomen. Like them themselves.

And in fact they were dressed - if so one could say - just like the two of them. They had already seen before how the two slave girls were attired, but, now, the appearance of their garbs struck them very forcefully

Because it was their own clothing.

The clothing of two slave-girls.

Exactly what T'Pau and Delight were.

Seeing themselves attired in that way put them, painfully and fully, in front of the entire - and grim - reality into which their lives had sunk.

And it didn't matter anything to Delight if, deep down, this, more or less, would have been the usual way in which she would have been dressed in her world, among her people, because in her world, among her people, it would have been her to combine herself in that way. It would not have been imposed to her. Would not have been the emblem of her condition as a slave-girl.

Her hand sought the hand of T'Pau. Found it. Squeezed it. And felt that its grip was reciprocated.

T'Pau's voice shook her from her thoughts.

"And those?"

Delight followed T'Pau's gaze without her hand letting go that of the Vulcan.

In the hands of the slave-girl who had brought the so-called clothes there were some objects.

Two anklets and two high bangles of golden metal.

Delight realized.

Her eyes went to the ankles and arms of the two slaves.

Each of them carried around the right upper arm one of those bangles and around the left ankle one of those anklets.

"These are for you two." The voice of the first slave.

"Wear them." The voice of the second slave.

Delight looked at the objects in the hands of the slave. Then she looked at T'Pau. She, too, was looking at her.

It was Delight who spoke. "Our symbolic chains of slavery."

"Yes." The first slave.

"The tangible sign of your status." The second slave.

"You have to wear them." The first slave-girl.

"Without them..." A hesitation in the voice of the second slave-girl. "...without them and dressed this way, you... are dead."

The two new-slaves turned in unison toward the two veteran slaves.

There was something in the eyes of these ones which sounded like…

If they and T'Pau and Delight had found themselves in another universe, a universe not made up of suspicion and violence, and meanness, and malevolence, it would have been clear, very clear, what kind of look it were. A look of understanding. Of compassion.

But they were not in another universe. They were there, in that universe, made up of suspicion and violence and meanness and malevolence.

Yet...

Yet, into the eyes of the two slaves...

Was there, by chance, something that sounded like understanding and compassion?

For a moment the two bondwomen stood quietly watching with that look T'Pau and Delight, who were shaking hands with one another, who were staring at them with eyes full of misunderstanding and uncertainty. And fear. Perfectly visible in the gaze of the orion girl; desperately dissembled but equally well perceivable in that of the vulcan female.

With the eyes of who wanted to understand and know. Which would have been their odious fate.

Then, the two _experienced_ slave-girls nodded to each other, like if they had took their decision.

And actually so it was.

That wasn't part of their duties, none of their lords and masters had asked them to give explanations, but those two… new recruits were so young, looked so vulnerable. And through how many horrendous things had they surely had to pass! And then... then they were spoils of war of the human General and, if something had happened to them because of something that had not been told them...

That General was not like the others, like their romulan masters, and not just because he was a Human. There was in him something undefined and indefinable, but, in any event, whatever it was, it was something… that chilled.

And aroused dread.

So, ultimately, better to talk, better to make those two new slaves know all was needed to know in order…. to stay alive in their condition.

The first spoke. Her voice was soft and sad. "Without those symbols of slavery, any woman who is dressed like us and you and therefore is clearly a slave-girl, will be liable to death, because the fact that she is not wearing them means that, even being a slave, she refuses to be it."

"A rebellious slave." It was the second slave.

"And a rebellious slave..." The first.

"Deserves only death." The second. Gravely and somberly.

"Death!" It escaped unstoppable from the mouth of Delight as the mouth of T'Pau moved along with hers to repeat, in a silent whisper... "Death."

The slave nodded, with an expression of grim certainty. "Death. Yes."

The other slave intervened, with dejected solemnity. "This applies both in the case that the slave refuses to don these iconic chains and in the case that she refuses to obey an order, of any kind it is, or even if she only appears to be somewhat hesitant to obey that order, because in this last case…"

"She gets stripped of those symbolic chains."

"And at every moment..."

"Everywhere..."

"In whatever way..."

"Death can befall down on her."

T'Pau found the strength to speak. "Her master will punish her with death. When she least expects it. And in the cruellest way."

Another look full of innuendo between the two slaves, then the first spoke again. "Partially true."

T'Pau came forward with decision. "Stop it, now. Enough." The Vulcan that was in her spoke firmly. "Explain." Then, hesitantly, almost apologetically... "The two of us... the two of us... we are not currently in a position to enjoy the riddles."

Those who now could justly be called the slavery instructors of T'Pau and Delight exchanged a knowing look.

The first, the one who from the beginning had shown herself more willing to open up, nodded. "You are right. Enough with the riddles. You need to know."

T'Pau and Delight shook reciprocally their hands again, with tense expectation. Now they would have known.

The voice of the slave rose, low and severe.

"I, my partner, here; both you two; and all those like us and you two; all, with rare exceptions, we are slaves of all. I want to say that there is among us no one who has a single owner. We are all the slaves of all the romulan warlords. We belong to all of them. And all of them, each of them, has right of life and death on each of us."

Neither T'Pau nor Delight dared utter the slightest sound or make the slightest gesture. They stood listening with intense trepidation, hand in hand, to what the slave-girl had yet to say.

"The romulan society is a warrior society and male chauvinistic. The romulan females are virtually non-existent. They are confined to their mansions, to govern them, or, at most, can take on secondary roles, and they do nothing more. The males hold the reins of science and technology. They govern, manage, dictate. And make war. And they do nothing more. Any other task is entrusted to the slaves."

The slave paused. She was preparing for the rest, and this came. With all its heaviness.

"This structure of the romulan society has been established from the beginning of its formation, long time ago, when... the Romulans parted from the Vulcans."

T'Pau and Delight as well, held their breath. So it was true. _It was true_. The Romulans and the Vulcans...

"A war of ideas and power, a hard and terrible war, had broken out between the two species, sons of the same ancestors, that populated Vulcan; and those who are now the Romulans, but who at that time were nothing more than Vulcans physically a little different from the ones you know, have realized at some point that they were at a disadvantage."

T'Pau and Delight hung from the lips of the slave.

"They were few and understood that they would be defeated. And annihilated. They would disappear. So they decided to go away and they did. They left Vulcan and vanished. Of them it has no longer been heard or known anything and Vulcans have lost any memory of them."

Another pause. It was needed. It was necessary to give time to the two new slaves, and especially to the Vulcan, to T'Pau, to absorb the impact of those revelations.

Then the revelations started again.

"But they existed and had found a new world. Romulus. They became the Romulans. And they grew up. And proliferated. And they imposed their law and their dominance to many worlds. They became lords of the plots hatched out in the shadows and of the wars. Free to devote themselves to them thanks to their slaves."

"The Vulcans!" T'Pau could not help herself.

"Yes. In going away from Vulcan, they brought with them many Vulcans, males and females. They became their slaves. The males were and are forced to work for them, to do the heaviest works, until they are able to make it. Then they are suppressed. The females... if they are attractive, are meant to be their servants and sex slaves, prone to every order and every desire of their lords, on pain of death or of the most atrocious tortures. As long as they are able to do so. In the moment in which they are no longer capable of doing it, they too are suppressed. They go to reach their sisters, not handsome enough to be allowed to remain alive to serve their romulan masters and to give them pleasure."

The voice of the second slave rose low into the air. It resounded firm and cold. But couldn't it be perceived, by chance, something which sounded as a note of unhopeful and grim weariness in it? "It was the revenge of the Romulans. Had their brothers practically forced them to abandon their world? So then they would have forced their brothers to serve them, in every way, in their new world."

Another pause. Extremely intense. "And one day, they would have returned to Vulcan, as lords and masters of their primal homeland."

"This is the plan of the Romulans."

"This is their will."

"And they won't stop at anything."

"Those who rebel..."

"Any slave who rebels..."

"Are dead."

"And we are their slaves." T'Pau said it as if it were a question, but it was not. It was a gloomy statement.

"And… and since we are their slaves, and given the rules they impose, we, I and T'Pau… we are at the mercy of any romulan male." Impossible to say how sad and disheartened it sounded Delight's feeble voice.

The two teachers on the subject of slavery looked at each other once again. A gray shadow of sadness seemed to thicken on their faces. One more time, the first slave spoke and her voice resounded as if cracked. "Yes, it is true. The two of us and the two of you, we are all slaves. But you two are also spoils of war."

The second alternated with the first. It was as if they knew the script by heart. "Both of you have been claimed as his own prey of war by the human General."

"And, according to the laws of Romulus, you are been given to him as such."

"You two are his spoils of war."

"What... what does this imply?" It was T'Pau. It sounded strange, but her voice rang uncertain. And there was a poignant note of hope in it. Her hand... yes, exactly like that ... her hand clutched convulsively that of Delight, who did not even dare talk. She could not. She had not the strength. Was there... was there perhaps some hope for them? Some feeble hope of not being subject to the sad fate of those two other slave-girls?

"He has the right to keep the two of you with him, in his own lodgings, while the other slaves have no home except that one, ephemeral, of the one who among their masters claims them for a certain day or a certain night. And if no one claims them, then they can do nothing else but hide themselves away to sleep in a corner of one of the many common rooms intended to receive them."

"You, no. You can stay here, in the quarters of your peculiar master."

"And as long as you are here, you are untouchable by anyone else."

"Out of here, no. Outside, you are at the mercy of anyone, unless you can't demonstrate you're already doing something for some other romulan warlord."

"Or unless you're at the side of the one who possesses you as his spoils of war."

"Out of here..."

"Alone…"

"Without him..."

"You two are like the two of us."

"Soulless flesh for our lords and masters."

"The Romulans."

A heavy silence fell in the room.

T'Pau and Delight continued to shake each other's hand. Each of them knew what the other was thinking.

So it was true. That man, that Human, that Being that no one could believe had a glimmer of... of ... what was it called? Pity?... That Being, so full of frost as to be capable of spreading frost all around him, so icily lone and alone... he was really protecting them, after having saved them.

A despicable, sordid traitor to his race, a vile mercenary in cahoots with a species even crueller than that cruel universe. What else could one think of him? Yet, that Being had saved them at his own risk and, at his own risk, had claimed them as his spoils of war.

To protect them.

To allow them to avoid the dark fate of those two slave-girls.

He had told them atrocious things, had told them that they would not be anything but sex toys for him, his slaves, subject to his will and desires. But he had smiled to them. With his disfigured face that aroused disgust and fear. But he had smiled to them, and, ultimately, he had taken them with him and had embezzled them from the horrible doom that hung over all the slaves of the Romulans.

The heat that both of them had sensed that blazed in the midst of all that frost he had inside him and diffused around him... that warmth... existed for real.

Ice and fire, frost and heat.

They coexisted in him.

That man was a mystery.

He was alive, when he should be dead.

He had been an ensign of the Empire of men, and instead he fought against them.

He was there, as an ally... apparently... to a breed, related to the Vulcans, that nobody knew, and that he instead knew. And knew well. He was one of its Generals!

He had served the Empire of men and had certainly also simultaneously served the Empire of Romulus. And no one knew anything.

How had he done it?

Was he really a mercenary?

Was he really a traitor?

Or was he very simply nothing more than a sinister servant of himself?

But then, in this case, why had he saved them? Why seemed to want to protect them?

And why had he saved Harrad-Sar?

And... and T'Pol.

T'Pol!

Suddenly, the two girls, the Vulcan and the Orion, at the same time, realized something that was almost gone unnoticed, in the shocking revelations that the two slave-girls had given them. The two of them were now much more than in the same boat. It was almost as if their brains had learned, to necessity, to think together; their hearts, to beat together.

It was T'Pau the one who gave shape to their unexpressed question, and not merely because she was a Vulcan. She was the guide - she knew it and accepted it, just as Delight. So, she had to behave as such.

She let go Delight's hand and stepped forwards towards the two slave-girls. "You said that all of us slave-girls - _all of us _- we are slaves of all, that we do not belong to anyone in particular, but that we belong to everyone. But you also said _with rare exceptions_."

The slave who always took the initiative nodded. "We said so."

"So are there slaves under conditions different from ours?"

Something... What was it? Bitterness? Envy?... passed fast on the face of the woman. "There are."

T'Pau said nothing. Her face, her quizzical expression spoke for her.

It was the other slave who decided to speak, to strive to provide an explanation. She made it laboriously. And it wasn't difficult to understand the why. She, T'Pau, and Delight were war booty. They, the two slave girls, were not. They did not have this dubious privilege. Now she, T'Pau, was asking them to explain what it meant that there were exceptions, in the world of slavery in which they, the two slaves, - and now even she, T'Pau, and Delight - lived. Exceptions. That is, slaves not slaves of all, like them. Therefore, slaves with privileges - if so you could say - even higher than those she and her orion companion had in comparison with them.

They, the two slave girls, were neither exceptions nor spoils of war. Their fate was that of a life of pain and suffering, until, abandoned by their loveliness, they would have been brutally suppressed.

How not to feel bitterness and envy towards those to whom it was granted to have a better fate? There was to wonder how the two bondwomen could be willing to provide explanations; disposed to not let them, her and Delight, cook in their own juice, as a Human would have said.

But most likely, also for this there was an explanation and, once again, this explanation could reside in him. Tucker.

Him.

Always him.

The man of the mystery.

Of the ice and the fire.

T'Pau had understood, was sure. She and Delight could count in some way on his protection and she had no doubt that Delight had understood as well, that she too had such certainty. But, and this was the point, how could it be possible to think of being able to have some security in the new and more than merely difficult condition where she and Delight were now without any information or explanation on the condition itself? So, it was quite obvious - it was logical - that the two slaves, just as they had been commissioned by him - by him, Tucker - to provide them, her and Delight, with food and medicine and… clothes, they had also received some input from him about the opportunity to inform them two about how things were.

Or maybe they just had thought it was much better to do so, for… their own good. Better not to have to face the wrath of the human General. Better not to let themselves freeze from his frost. Or burn by his fire.

The slave spoke in a low voice, without endeavouring to avoid letting her bitterness shine through in her tone.

"There are slave girls who are lucky enough to be claimed as slave girls of unique property, owned by only one master. If they are able to meet the expectations of the one who has requested them, they can belong to him alone, and no one, who is not their lord and master, can command them. They are slave girls of a higher order."

Delight came forward in turn. Even her voice sounded very low. "And do you... do you know of the existence of any of them?"

The response was immediate. Nearly one burst. "The Human General, the one who demanded and obtained the two of you as his own spoils of war, has also claimed and obtained that the vulcan female, the one he subtracted from the death decreed for her by the Empress of the Human Empire, could be of his exclusive property."

A break.

"Provided that she's able to satisfy him... fully."

Something... a sort of malicious pleasure in the tone of the slave.

But neither T'Pau nor Delight were able to notice it.

Why?

But because they had quite other things to think about at that moment.

So this too was true!

T'Pol was there, where they too were.

And it was true as well that she had been saved by him, by Tucker, just as the two of them and as Harrad-Sar.

And he, Tucker, the ghastly treacherous human traitor, the man of the mystery, of the ice and fire... he... just the way he was protecting the two of them in the only way that was possible in that place and for them... he... he was protecting T'Pol even more! He wanted to subtract her from every possible affront which could be done to her. He wanted to give her the freedom! All the freedom that it was possible that a slave-girl could have!

Because he...

Because he wanted her to be able to enjoy again his warmth, wanted her to help him revive his hidden flame. To disperse into the fire all that frost.

His icy solitude!

And all this because...

Delight wasn't capable of giving actual shape to her thoughts, which - she knew - were also those of T'Pau.

But her thoughts took body by themselves.

_Because he loved her!_

In that Being of ice it had born the fire of love!

The reborn warrior princess of the ancient myths of Vulcan had made be reborn in the most unlikely of lovers that thing... that thing Delight knew that existed somewhere. That had to exist!

The love.

Submerged in the frost. But ready to burst out, to blaze up.

To melt all that ice.

On condition… on condition...

An idea... a thought... an inexpressible question, in the heart of Delight.

She... T'Pol...

Would she have been able to feed that fire?

Would she have been able to dispel that chill? To make that ice loneliness vanish?

Would she have been able to earn that love?

_That love of ice and fire?_

"You are ready now. We have done everything we were supposed to do. And... even more."

The harsh words of the slave brought back Delight - and also T'Pau, it must be said - to the honour of the world.

The two new slave girls nodded together and Delight could not resist. She grabbed the hands of both the other two slaves. "Thank you!"

The two bondwomen looked at her with evident astonishment, without withdrawing their hands.

Then...

There was not to get wrong. The shadow of a sad smile flickered on their faces.

A moment. Only a fleeting moment.

They withdrew, and without another word or other gestures, they headed towards the door.

One of them opened it, and both they went out, but one of them stopped just outside. She turned to look at Delight and T'Pau, who were standing up, motionless, side by side, in the middle of the room, in their attires of slave girls. And once again, the slave - it was again her, the one who was more willing to open herself - has wanted to talk.

"Do not forget what we said. Do not... do not leave this room. Never. Not without being along with your master."

The slave looked at T'Pau with intensity. "Especially you, Vulcan."

Then she turned and disappeared from sight.

Delight and T'Pau stood staring at the closed door.

Clouds of thoughts filled their minds.

Thoughts even difficult to grasp.

Thoughts... thoughts...

Delight approached T'Pau even more. Their eyes met.

"T'Pau…"

"Delight?"

"T'Pol... will she… will she be able to understand?"

There wasn't any surprise, or, much less, any incomprehension into T'Pau's eyes at Delight's question. She understood very well what she meant. And her reply came spontaneous and sincere from the bottom of her katra. "I hope so, Delight."

Delight nodded. "You know, T'Pau, I... I do not know, but... it seems to me that somehow this... this is tremendously important. I do not know why, but I feel that it is so."

"Delight..."

"T'Pau?"

"I also think so."

Silence. Full of things unexpressed. Inexpressible.

Delight turned away from T'Pau. Under her gaze, she sat on the bed.

"T'Pau..." - With her head bowed, without raising her eyes to look at her companion. – "T'Pau, will... will T'Pol be able to make blaze up that fire in the middle of all that ice? Will she be capable of understanding that the strength of that flame could... could..."

"Change the course of destiny? This do you mean, Delight?"

Delight looked up. Amazed. Yes, this was exactly what she wanted to say and T'Pau had been able to understand it. And... and she knew – knew! - that T'Pau had the same thoughts that crowded her mind; that the Vulcan was just thinking what she, Delight, was thinking.

"I..." - Again. Frankly. What sense was there in lying to Delight and to herself? – "I hope so, Delight. I really hope so."

Delight nodded again. Then...

The words came out almost by their own will from her mouth.

"I think so, T'Pau. I believe that T'Pol will understand. I think she will want and will be able to feed that fire. Because... because it must have been nice for her to be able to warm up, in that heat."

The girl stood up. She looked at T'Pau straight in the face, her eyes soft. Dreamy.

"It must... must be nice to feel it, T'Pau. It must be stupendous. And... and it must be wonderful to feel of being able to invigorate it. And... to feel of being able to alleviate with your own heat... at least a little... that loneliness of frost."

A pause. To find the strength and the sincerity to say it. But Delight could not help but say it.

"It must be sublime to feel of being able to dissolve with the fire..."

Delight said it. _Her heart said it_.

"...with the fire of your love the ice that envelops _his_ heart.

* * *

_**End of Chapter Twenty**_

_**TBC**_

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

**OOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO**

_**Delight! What's happening to you?**_


End file.
